


The Rise and Fall of the Nord Republic, A Narrative Account (Book One: The Stormcloak Rebellion)

by John_Clarke



Series: The Rise and Fall of the Nord Republic, A Narrative Account [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Low Fantasy, Gen, Major Original Character(s), Moral Ambiguity, Politics, Revolution, Sexual Content, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 10:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8442871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Clarke/pseuds/John_Clarke
Summary: The tale of Cato's Republic begins with the Stormcloak Rebellion, in which he played no small part. This era of history is most fascinating to scholars as it provides a far greater context for understanding the personality of Cato Black-Wolf and the reasons his revolution later proved so successful.Here we learn how it all got started, and we learn a little about what life was like before we entered a more noble age.





	1. The Players...

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [ateliers2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/ateliers2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Historical Event  
> The French Revolution 1789-1799
> 
> ...
> 
> This is an attempt to inject some realism into the 'Elder Scrolls' setting, but serves a dual person, as a parallel (though by no means a direct allegory) to the French Revolution. It is the first of what I plan to be a three, or four, part series.
> 
> There are a few elements I was distinctly unsure of including. Nevertheless, here it is (worts and all). Any constructive criticism and general feedback would be, and is, greatly appreciated and hoped for.
> 
> Content Warning: This work contains graphic violence and sexual vulgarity, as well as references to rape.

4E 197, 25th of Frost Fall

The campfire flickered relentlessly against the cool night air. The men heard a quiet crackle every so often but were, otherwise, immersed in the calmness of natural silence. Vulcan regarded his brothers with a look of determination and intensity. Evander, the youngest, had to dart his eyes every which to avoid being caught in it. He was the only one still unsure of his place in the world, and trepidatious about the move they were all about to make. Their escape from slavery had been a truly gruelling endeavour and, in his heart, he wanted nothing more than to keep running now that he had his freedom.

Cyrodiil had been calling to him his entire life, as the only son of their well-travelled father to have never seen the region; he’d only heard about it in the stories his father would tell him as a boy and no amount of argument from his older siblings could convince him that it was anything less than a paradise on earth. As his brothers got to their feet in anticipation of Vulcan’s words, Evander took a while to contemplate his future before joining them.

“Raise your swords, brothers.” Vulcan’s black hair had gone grey with age but his beard retained it blackness, at least at the roots. Their father had hated beards, so Vulcan always made sure to keep his trimmed. In fact, the first thing he’d stolen after recovering his arms and armour had been a razor and a pair of scissors. “We are here to swear a blood oath.” Their swords clattered together to form a cross, with Vulcan’s coming from the west, Janus’ from the north, Cato’s from the east and, once he brought it up, Evander’s from the south.

“Akatosh, we beseech you.” Their swords were all forged from the finest steel in the land, expensive gifts from their very wealthy father. Each hilt had a unique design, a different gem encased in the pommel and a different animal head on the cross-guard, its eyes looking down the length of the plate. 

Being the first-born and heir to his father’s various titles, Vulcan’s sword bore the symbol of their family, a wolf, and held a diamond in its pommel. It expressed little of his personality, except that he was his father’s son. He had, in fact, been resentful of his father in his younger years, distressed by the burden of living up to the family name. Now, however, as he entered his late thirties, he’d come to terms with his father’s legacy and knew that, whilst he could not hope to replicate his achievements, he could manage to avoid repeating his failures.

Janus, the second-born, had the distinction of receiving his sword at a far younger age than the others; when Vulcan had received his sword, at the age of fourteen, Janus was also gifted a sword, though he was only twelve at the time and could not wield it. The animal that decorated his hilt was a bull, symbolising the toiler he’d, even at that age, proved himself to be. In his pommel was an amber. Of all his father’s children, Janus had been the most loyal and the most dedicated, which also meant that he’d been struck the hardest by his death.

Cato, the third child, whom his parents had planned to be the youngest, had had to wait until a few months after he’d initially been promised his sword to get it. It had all been part of the constant war Brynjar had waged with his son to instil in him some much needed patience. It hadn't been successful, though his father seemed to have known it wouldn’t because the animal he’d chosen for Cato was a ram; a symbol of his aggression and temperamental disposition. The stone in his pommel was a ruby. His hair was blonde, unlike his brothers, who all shared darker shades; Evander’s was as black as Vulcan’s used to be, and Janus’ was dark brown like their mother’s.

Evander was an unexpected addition to the Black-Wolf family tree, but a happy one nonetheless. Seven years younger than Cato, and a full ten years younger than Janus, he was the undisputed baby of the class. He had also been the only one in the family to show an artistic side. That, combined both with his age and his sensitive soul, had meant he’d never really stopped being thought of as his siblings’ baby brother. The animal’s head forged, most masterfully, onto the centre of his cross-guard, on both sides, was a lioness, and the gem in his pommel was a rather large emerald.

“We offer you our blood to bind us to our word.” They all knew what to do. Cato was the first to slice his left forearm and drip some of the resulting blood into the fire. Vulcan and Janus went immediately after that, with no hesitation. Evander, as usual, was the last to commit. He could feel their thoughts weighing down on him, their expectations and unspoken demands of him. Eventually, he caved to the pressure of duty, and cut himself as they had. With the blood of the final brother now staining the ground, Vulcan was able to continue.

“We pledge ourselves to make vengeance upon our father’s enemies and restore honour to his name. As you are our witness, we shall not waiver in our duty until we die or until Skyrim is freed from tyranny.”

After that the three older brothers cheered in defiance. A lone wolf responded with a howl somewhere on the other side of the river and Vulcan kicked dirt over the fire to extinguish it. “Now, let us find our sister.”

Cato approved whole-heartedly. “And once we have, we’ll murder the bastard that owns her!”

Their sister, Livia, was the gentlest and kindest woman Evander had ever known. Whilst his mother’s kindness was balanced out by her temper, Livia seemed to have limitless patience. It made him deeply upset to consider how she might now be living. In her teenage years she had grown into a buxom figure and had endless problems with would-be suitors. She had still been a virgin when they’d all been taken prisoner and, whilst it grieved him to know she’d most likely been deflowered by whoever had purchased her from Whiterun’s Jarl, Evander could tell that it only further fuelled Cato’s thirst for blood.

His other brothers wore faces too difficult for him to read.


	2. ... and the Stage!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consider the kind of men Cato's brothers were, and the man himself; men forged by circumstance. The world they were raised in is quite different from our own.

4E 198, 11th of First Seed

Turmoil was brewing in Largashbur. Orcs, of all ages and of both sexes, were up in arms. Almost the entire village had gathered, even some of the chief’s wives were there, demanding Yamarz show his face and accept Kurigul’s challenge. Only the wise women stood by the incumbent, though even they were forced to admit, after hours of heated debated with the mob, that it was shameful of their chief not to face his challenger. Atub, oldest and wisest of all, continued to press her line of reasoning that Kurigul would be unfit to lead the tribe but few people cared. It was a matter of principle, and not of politics, for most of them; they did not wish to see a ruler maintain power through debate but through violence.

Kurigul was a fine orc specimen and, to his peers, appeared to have all the markings of a great leader. He was tall, even by orc standard, and visibly shredded. His tusks were small, which had become desirable in recent decades, and he’d proven himself in battle countless times. When Yamarz finally did appear, by contrast, he was liquored up to overcome his cowardice. If there were ever a time when the people would have accepted Atub’s rhetoric, it would have been when Yamarz himself had sought to become leader by challenging his elderly, but well respected, predecessor.

The chief hadn’t even bothered to wear a loincloth for modesty. It was unclear whether he’d chosen to fight nude as a throwback to more ancient times or because he was simply too drunk to care about his appearance. The crowd seemed to assume it was the latter, showering him in insults and mocking laughter. He ignored them and directed some slurred vitriol at his opponent. “You think you’ve got what it takes – I’m the king around here – you better – you should – I’ll kill you!”

The contest lasted a matter of seconds. Yamarz began it with a lazy punch, which Kurigul dodged effortlessly, and it was ended when the challenger used their traded positioning, with the chief having fallen forward with his missed punch, to grab a firm hold of the drunken orc’s head. He snapped the pitiful man’s neck in a single twisting motion. The crowd surrounding the fight erupted into cheers as it happened. None of them, barring Atub, mourned the passing of their old leader. The old woman regarded Kurigul carefully before speaking, making it very obvious that she disapproved. “Congratulations, Kurigul, in accordance with the will of Malacath, you are now our leader.”

He didn’t let the old crone get to him. Instead, his basked in the glory of his triumph and the adoration of what was, now, _his_ tribe. Amongst the various hands of villagers grasping at his body, he felt those of Lob, a boyhood friend and more, which he knew instinctively. He was filled with yearning by the man’s touch so, in order to avoid embarrassment, he pulled away from the crowd. To keep their good will, however, he came up with a reasoning for doing so. “We must celebrate! What else is our old chief’s liquor good for now he’s dead?!” That received another round of cheers, seemingly even louder than those he’d received upon victory.

He ate well that night, and drank too much, all before retiring to the chief’s quarters. He was too bloated to sleep well but too exhausted to go out for a stroll, which is what he usually did to clear his head, so he was forced to lie on his furs and contemplate his new responsibilities. The rush of victory had faded from his mind but Atub’s glare had stayed with him; he wondered how much of her suspicion that he’d make a poor leader was rooted in fact. He would, certainly, make a good leader in battle and on hunts and he even thought he had a talent for basic tribal management but he knew there were certain _other_ duties that he was sure he could not perform. Frustrated by how fleeting his feelings of pride were, he comforted himself that, in the short run, at least, he would have no problem living up to the expectations of his people.

### 

4E 198, 14th of Sun’s Height

Cato dragged Livia’s old owner deep into the woods. The others followed, purposefully, behind. Evander held his sister’s hand the whole way, having barely released his grip since they’d been reunited. She looked dreadful. Her lovely blonde locks had been cut away and her head shaved so that she could be dressed in whatever wig her owner might fancy, only whoever had done the shaving had done a terrible job so her scalp was replete with nasty cuts, bruises and blisters. Her face, as with the rest of her body, was gaunt and bony, the exact opposite of her astoundingly obese owner. Regardless, Evander couldn’t take his eyes off her; he’d lost her once before and he wasn’t about to let it happen again.

Once his gag was removed, the fat man began to blubber and plead for mercy. “Please! Please! I can pay! Please!”

Vulcan replied, calmly. “We’ve already secured your wealth. There’s nothing left for you to pay us with.”

Tears came flooded down the man’s bulbous cheeks at this point. “What about favours?! I’ve got friends in very high places – yes, I have – I have the Jarl’s ear – the Jarl of Riften and I’m sure – Please! Just don’t kill me! I’m begging you!”

“We cannot be bribed, Olaf. You’ve hurt our sister, and for that we must have justice.”

“I’ve not hurt her – please, I beg you – no, I’ve not hurt her! I’ve treated her well! She’s been like family to me!”

“Liar!” Livia’s words startled the man and brought him onto another fit of tears. “Vulcan he has hurt me. He’s…” She faltered a little, and Evander squeezed her hand in support. “He’s raped me… more times than I can count.” Her words came out shakily and an eerie silence descended over the forest afterwards, as if even the birds understood that a death sentence had just been handed down.

The silence was broken by Olaf snorting up his runny nose and his harsh open sobbing. That set Cato off and he broke the rapist’s left elbow with an almighty running kick. Olaf was sent crashing into the dirt, shrieking in pain. Cato then pulled him back up onto his knees, roughly, slapping him around the head for good measure.

The weeping man was given some relief as Vulcan’s sober, calmer, tone altered the mood of the scene, keeping Cato in line for the time being. “In every city and every nation, the penalty for your crime would be death. Whilst we possess no legal authority, owing to the tyranny that dwells in this land, we do have a sacred duty to our family.” He withdrew a knife from his belt and made his way towards the damned, who by this point had closed his eyes to pray for divine intervention. He was forced to open them by the chilling screech of his victim’s voice.

“No!” Livia rushed up to her eldest brother. “I want to do it.” Evander mourned her lost innocence, as Cato’s twin took the knife in her own hand. She walked up to her tormenter and spat in his face.

After the first knife wound, cutting into his belly, his demeanour changed. Now aware that any further pleading or praying would prove futile, his true character shined through. “Go on then you stinking whore!” The responding blow caused his next words to come out with a spray of blood. “Nothing you can do will bring back what I’ve taken from you!” He cackled defiantly between fits of choking and crying in agony.

Livia’s next move, enraged by his words, was to bite his face, tearing half of his bottom lip off and leaving a gaping hole in his left cheek. Evander averted his eyes in horror, covering his ears when the man let out a blood-curdling shriek of pain. Livia went on to stab him in his genitals repeatedly before finally putting him out of his grand misery with a deep slash across the throat. She went up to her baby brother, assured him that it was all over and then pulled him into a hug. It was his turn to cry, as she had no more tears to shed.

“It’s alright, brother. It’s alright.” She stroked his hair and tightened her grip, as her words only seemed to upset him further. The other men buried the body in a shallow grave after stripping away what remained of his finery. With the money they’d stolen, they were able to build a cabin near Kynesgrove in Eastmarch, one of the few holds where they weren’t wanted men. The hope of a return to stability was enough to keep Evander sane, as the stress of rescuing Livia and executing her owner threatened to send him into a mental breakdown.

Livia, herself, seemed to be adjusting well, or so her brothers all thought. She was talkative, even if a lot of the joy they’d all remembered so fondly had been drained from her voice by years of abuse, and she made herself busy cooking and cleaning as she had when their mother’s health had first begun to fade. She had even begun to gain a healthy amount of weight in a matter of weeks from eating well. The simple life felt idyllic and Evander allowed himself to forget about the oath they’d all sworn. Whilst Vulcan would still fret from time to time, that they ought to plan a mission to aid in the country’s eventual liberation, his brothers found themselves adjusting to a slower pace. Evander had Janus to thank for the fact that they weren’t forced to leave, as the second-born had convinced Vulcan that they needed to stay with their sister for the time being.

In order to ingratiate themselves with the locals, who had initially regarded them with suspicion, Cato had volunteered to work for the local mine. Evander had made himself useful by occasionally playing music for the Braidwood Inn’s patrons. The two older brothers tended to keep to themselves, though Janus had become friends with an elven mage named Dravynea. His keen interest in magic, combined with his obvious potential, meant that she would call on him at various hours, having gone so long without someone to talk deeply with that she’d lost her manners.

Their various arrangements and dispositions led, one fateful night, to all four brothers being away from the house. It was the first time Livia had been left on her own, though none of them considered that a fact of significant importance and she, herself, raised no objection. Evander had managed to convince his eldest brother to take him fishing, as he was determined to keep him away from the thoughts he entertained whilst cooped up in the cabin, which Evander guessed were mostly concerned with what sort of violent adventure the band of brothers should next embark upon.

They pushed their rowing boat into the river and hopped in, ready for a long night of disappointment, before Evander began to speak. He was always much more confident speaking to his brothers on their own than when they were all gathered together. He tended to believe they treated him with more respect without the unspoken hierarchy that emerged when they were all in the same room. “Do you think Livia is recovering?”

“She’s despondent at times but, ultimately, seems quite functional. Really, I think we could leave at any time and she could live out her days here.”

“You’re only saying that because you want us to get back onto your quest for vengeance.”

Vulcan scoffed at that, piercing his brother with a glare that never failed to make him uncomfortable. “It’s not _my_ quest, boy, it’s all of ours.”

Evander never liked to be called ‘boy’. “I’m twenty five years old!”

Vulcan’s response cut him back down to size. “Then act like it.” He didn’t need to shout, unlike his brother, to get his point across. “Whether you like it or not, our father was a great man, and we cannot allow for his death to have been in vain. You know what he would’ve wanted from us.”

Evander couldn’t argue with that. “I know but …” He searched, hurriedly, for an excuse or counter-point but couldn’t find one. “Can’t you do it on your own? You were his heir, after all.”

“We were _all_ his sons.” Vulcan was strident on that point, despite the fact that rumours persisted, around the circumstances of Janus’ conception, which put it in doubt. Still, the spirit of the argument was powerful and Evander surrendered to it.

“I suppose you’re right.” His tone was defeated and deflated.

“Of course I am. Sometimes you seem to forget that I went through just the same phase as you did. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t bound to our father’s legacy, and I was a fool to do so.”

Back at the cabin, Livia was pacing, as she often did. She went from one end of the common room to the other, stopping in the middle briefly to grip the back of a chair and stand on her tiptoes as though she were trying to look through some high window. “Are you alright?” Janus spoke with concern.

“Yes, of course. I’m just dithering, that’s all. I sometimes don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Why don’t you read a book?” She considered that for a second, as if she wasn’t quite sure what he’d just said and was trying it figure it out from contextual clues. Eventually, she responded, with pleasant dismissal.

“You were always the reader in our family. Books don’t hold the same appeal for me as they do for you.”

“Well, Cato should be along any minute. I’m sure he could think of something fun to do. You two were always getting up to mischief when you were kids.”

That comment elicited a wide smile from her, and Janus was glad it had. She’d not smiled so widely in a long time. “Correction: _he_ was always getting up to mischief, I used to tag along just to clean up the mess he made.”

“You were always looking at for him, and for Evander, even back then. It’s good to have you with us again.”

After that remark, her smile faded somewhat and she regarded her brother with a disconcerting look of dread.

“What’s the matter?” He got up from his chair as he spoke.

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” She smiled again, brushing it off. “I think I’m just tired.”

Janus would have responded to her, and probably urged her to tell the truth, but they were interrupted by a wrapping of knuckles against the door. “Ah, that should be Cato now.” It wasn’t.

Instead, he was greeted by Dravynea. “Hello, Janus. I thought you might like to join me for another lesson.” Her accent was thick and the way she enunciated her words aged her considerably.

He looked back at Livia and she laughed lightly. “Don’t mind me. You go, have fun.”

The dark elf bit back at her before Janus could respond. “I assure you, young lady; it’s not _fun_ we’re having. It’s hard work.” Livia smile only grew wider at that.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you later.” Slightly embarrassed, Janus left quickly. He was able to pull ahead of the grey-skinned woman because he knew where they were going.  
Her encampment was a large tent by the mines. It was made of thick black material that offered excellent protection from the elements and also worked to completely obscure the goings-on inside, such as a flickering fire, from a distance if the door was rolled down. He found one such fire crackling once he entered, the wisps of smoke it created being carried out of a small opening at the centre of the roof. The ground was covered in a mishmash of various blankets and rugs all around the fire and the elf’s bed roll was on the far end next to an old and battered oak chest of draws, which held an impressive number of books.

He wandered over to her bed and noticed that she already had things set up; a shiny red tome was placed to the side of where he usually sat and, in the middle of the bed roll, a wooden plate had been placed down.

“Please, sit. You have much to read.” He did as she commanded, sat down cross-legged at the foot of her bed and picked up the book. 

He read the title aloud. “The ancient art of seeing – what does that mean?”

“Most of us can see the superficial details of our surroundings, but with the aid of magic we can learn to see more deeply.”

“You mean, I could learn to see through walls?”

She smiled at that. Janus was eager to learn but he’d never possessed a particularly large imagination. “Much more than that. With enough practice and study, you’d be able to see into a person’s soul, to know their intentions and their moods.”

“Interesting.” He read on, in silence. She cooked a skeever tail whilst he did so, joining him once she saw the book fall into his lap. “I think I’d like to practice this.” She put the piece of slightly charred meat down on the plate before falling into a more relaxed state. She offered him her hands and he took them, reciting the incantation on the page before him. He could feel something brewing in his head – it felt hot and loud. In a half-second flash, he saw Dravynea encapsulated in a bright blue aura. When it was over, he felt a terrible migraine coming on. “Woah – ow – that was… surreal.”

“It takes some getting used to.” She was delighted with his progress, as most people wasted many hours trying to get the incantation right or trying to keep their minds free from distraction. “Anyway, eat up. Filling your stomach should stave off the headache.”

“Why didn’t you feed me before I started?”

“Accessing the spell can be disorienting for beginners. I wouldn’t want you to stain my lovely carpets.”

He chuckled at that and received his torn portion of rat meat. They chewed in silence, feeling rather awkward and averting their eyes from one another. After finishing his meal, he wiped his hands on his tunic and place the spell book carefully back down. As he got up to go home, he noticed his teacher dip her hands in the fire to clean them. He’d heard of such a feature amongst dark elves, their resistance to heat and fire, but had considered it a myth until now. “Remarkable.”

She looked up at him, with wide embarrassed eyes, pulling her hands back out. “Ah, yes, it’s a neat trick but, I’m afraid, it doesn’t make up for all the hostility I face for my race.”

“I think it’s shameful how your people are treated.”

“You are good man.” That comment brought them both to a quiet standstill, as they looked into one another’s eyes and saw their feelings reflected back. Janus was the first to break away.

“Right, well, I must be off.”

Against her better judgement, she argued her case. “You could stay the night, if you’d like. I’m sure we could get more done.” She’d grown awfully lonely since her departure from the old country.

“I suppose I could.” His words came out quietly, as he turned back towards her. “In fact, it could do me some good to master this art much sooner.” He said, knowing full well, as she did, that they wouldn’t be opening the book back up.

He crossed back over to her and they embraced. He was short and stocky, quite unlike his brothers, so the small elf had no trouble reaching his face. They kissed softly and he pulled her hood down. She was not attractive, by conventional standards, with a weathered face, a bald head and blood red eyes, but her appearance didn’t bother him. He’d fallen for her intelligence and her directness, qualities he found lacking in most other women. She made him feel comfortable and, in return, he made her feel _welcome_.

Meanwhile, at the Inn, Cato was pursuing his own romantic interest. Whilst he tended to do alright for himself, he was having much less luck this particular night. He’d talked a couple of ladies into a late night rendezvous after his first week there but the woman of his particular type was proving difficult to capture. This was more of a surprise to him than it would have been to anyone else, as Cato’s particular type was two things; middle-aged and married. He loved the thrill of tempting older women into scandalous trysts, and only rarely contemplated the morality of his actions. Even when he did, he convinced himself that he was in the right; so his philosophy went, he never pushed too far and, if they were properly appreciated by the men who held them, they wouldn’t stray.

One such woman, Iddra the barkeep of the Inn and its owner’s wife, was someone Cato was sure he could capture. The trouble was that his game plan had been interrupted by the woman’s obnoxious son.

“How are you then, lad?” Kjeld had bad breath and an irritatingly loud laugh. Cato had to resist the urge to talk his way into a bar fight.

“I am very well, and in the process of getting very drunk.” He smiled and hid the fact that wanted to gut the young man sitting beside him.

“I think I’ll join you in that. Ma, get me three jugs of ale!” He was used to bossing his mother around, and Cato could see a hint of resentment flash over her eyes before she acquiesced.

“And two more for me.” He added his order politely and jangled his coin purse. He could tell that she appreciated that subtle jab at her son’s refusal to compensate her for produce that’ve could otherwise have gone to _paying_ customers.

When their orders arrived, he made sure to steady himself, taking sips as regularly as Kjeld to keep him in the drinking spirit but making sure they were only small mouthfuls. He even feigned tipsiness from time to time, and if Kjeld’s dull brain could’ve picked up that he was faking, back when he was sober, he certainly couldn’t by the time he’d imbibed his own weight in alcohol.

Once he’d passed out, with his head smashing onto the bar, Cato was able to speak more openly. “Your son doesn’t treat you very well.”

“Mind your tongue.” Her words were harsh but her tone was mirthful.

He looked over at the big oaf and mused. “Was he spoiled as a child?”

“I was a strict parent. His father, on the other hand…” He laughed at that, but not too loudly.

“I admire women who know the value of discipline. I’d not take a wife until I was sure she knew how to make use of a cane.” That line carried a high risk and an equally high reward and, without the influence of drinking, he wouldn’t have used it so quickly. He regarded her carefully, making sure she caught his meaning.  
“I’m afraid you’ll not find many your own age.” And the gamble paid off. He began to relax and move his strategy forward a few stages.

“Oh, I’m not a shallow man. Age is of so little importance in the grand scheme of things. I’ve found experience to be much more attractive.”

She laughed at that, wickedly, stopping herself after a few seconds. “Slow down there, tiger.”

He flashed her a smile. His teeth were very good, hardly yellow and all accounted for, which was especially impressive when compared with her usual clientele. “I can go as slow as you’d like.”

“Easy now, I’m a married woman.”

He showed her his hands, in mock surrender. “You wound me.”

She considered him with a look of suspicion and, to her infinite shame, desire. He recognised the look and played up to it, as subtly as he could, which wasn’t very. He tugged at the collar of his tunic, revealing the inner top corners of his well-developed pectoral muscles before brushing a free hand through his shaggy blonde hair. She picked up on these signs but did not reaffirm her protest.

In fact, for a few too many seconds, she indulged him with needy eyes before snapping to her sense. “It must be getting late. Come, help me shift this lump, would you?” He nodded in agreement and helped her cart her son through to one of the empty guest rooms. “I’ll have his father dock the fee from his wages, assuming he can dare to chastise his baby boy.”

Cato said nothing at that, and simply stood around as if to wonder where he ought to go.

“You should be getting home.”

“Should I?” He asked the question with a coy grin.

“Yes.” She laughed and pushed at him weakly, trying to lead him to the door. He knocked her hands away playfully and manoeuvred behind her, tickling and groping her. “No, stop it.” She keeled over and began to giggle uncontrollably. Again, she was back to her senses within moments. She repeated herself. “No. Stop it.” But, this time, she said it with more authority and he relented.

“Sorry.” He apologised without giving up any ground, it sounded neither forced nor grovelling, simply curt. It was just the right tone to but her on the back foot, as it made him seem much more reasonable than he was really being.

“No, no, it’s fine.” She straightened herself out. “I can see where you got the wrong impression, but I’m not that sort of woman.”

“Of course not, I didn’t imagine that for a second. Trust me, I wouldn’t fall for _that_ sort of woman.” Her eyes widened at his words, so he pressed his advantage. “And, yes, I _have_ fallen for you. Call it immature, but I wear my heart on my sleeve.”

“No, no, it’s not immature. I – it’s – sometimes, I think, people just – and you’re a handsome young man and I’m flattered but…” She didn’t get to finish that line of thought as she was pulled up in an impulsive embrace. He held the small of her back and bent her over for a good long and deep kiss. She didn’t try to stop him and, once he pulled her back up and let her out, she gasped for breath, fanning her cheeks; they were red and hot. “Mara, forgive me.” She had tears threatening to fall.

Her pursuer’s tone became calmer, and more serious in response, as he began to plead his case. “Mara would surely disapprove. But what of Dibella? Wouldn’t she tell you to go with your heart?”

“It is not my _heart_ that moves me, you fool.” The remark cut him but he did not bite back out of genuine sympathy for the poor woman as she began to weep. “My _loins_ are driving me.” She seemed to be disgusted with herself.

“Do you not deserve to be satisfied, physically?” He was becoming more forthright, and a clear passion had returned to his voice. “Can you not reward yourself, even for a single night?” He wasn’t finished, though he could tell as her tears began to dry up and she nodded in agreement, that his words had already convinced her.

Must you toil forever with sleep as your only indulgence?”

“Just a single night?”

“I would lay with you for as many or as few nights as you desired.” He didn’t know quite how much of a lie he was telling. The words certainly felt honest to him, but he knew it was unlikely he’d have to test the first half of his sentence. Most of the women, like Iddra, that he’d taken to bed – and there had been a fair few – broke things off the morning after, scolding themselves for their sin and cursing him for the part he’d played in leading them off the straight and narrow path of marital torture.

She didn’t speak in full sentences after that, leading him up to her room. “Here.” She threw him onto her bed. “Undress.” Her words were impatient but not fiery. Rather, she appeared casual, as though she were trying to disassociate herself from her actions. He was able to bring her mind and body back into alignment, however, once they’d got undressed and he sat on her bed pulling her over to him, nipping and sucking at her flesh. He drew her passion back into their encounter by playing on their earlier conversation.

“You told me to mind my tongue earlier. I’m afraid I broke that rule, and I’m liable to break it again if you don’t teach me a lesson good and quick.” He was confident the line would work, by eliciting either laughter, lust or anger. In fact, he got all three. She chuckled slightly, out of embarrassment, which made her angry, since, now that she was distracted from her attempts to numb herself, she was forced to consider the wrongness of her actions. The lust came after a few moments of contemplation, as he peppered a trail of kisses down her belly towards her never regions.

“I think I’ll let this one slide.” She didn’t regret her decision, as his tongue ended up blowing her mind. She experienced a sensation in the pit of her stomach that she’d never felt before and was brought to orgasm for the first time in her life. Her legs shook violently and she had to bite down hard on her lip to keep from screaming the whole town awake. After that, she became even lustier, now keenly aware of just how good a prize she’d almost passed up. He took her as many ways as he could manage before spending himself. They eventually collapsed onto her bed sheets panting and, soon after that, laughing breathily.

“That was amazing.” Iddra’s comment was as much to herself as it was to her partner, so he didn’t gloat.

“It wasn’t half as much as you deserve.”

“You can stop that now, you know?” She was comfortable in his arms, and appreciative, but her good sense had come back. “I’ve guessed this was probably a _thing_ for you, or whatever, and I’m fine with that.”

He looked at her with concerned eyes and a furrowed brow, but could offer her no reply.

“You’ve made feel like a woman for, maybe, the first time in my life.” She kissed him softly, on the chest. “I’ll always be grateful to you for this night, but I won’t spend my nights pining for you or begging you to return when you stop coming around.”

He didn’t know how to respond so he just gave her a comforting squeeze and closed his eyes to sleep.


	3. The pain that drove men...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many people, now regarded as legends, possessed a more humble origin than we might first assume. Those around them may have been completely oblivious to the role fate had already decreed that they should play in the grand story of the revolution.

4E 198, 23rd of Last Seed

Cato woke up just before dawn, something he’d long ago trained his body for. He slid out of bed and but got dressed in a quiet hurry before sneaking off. Iddra was awake to see this play out, though she said nothing and closed her eyes whenever he turned around to check. The stairs were creakier than he’d have liked but, on account of the fact that he could hear her son’s snoring from all the way over on the other end of the inn, he doubted that he had much to worry about. A quick glance through a window gave him the all clear and he wandered home with a wide grin on his face. The first thing he did after he entered the cabin was pour himself a glass of whiskey, just the thing he needed to celebrate another successful conquest.

And, so it was that Vulcan and Evander, as the marched back home soaking wet and miserable, heard the smash of such a glass falling to the cabin floor. They rushed into the cabin, blades drawn and adrenaline kicking in, to find their brother sunken to his knees wailing and sputtering in Livia’s room. Vulcan seethed at the sight before them, of their dear sister collapsed in massive pool of blood. “Shit!” Evander rushed over to her cold and motionless body, trying desperately to wake her up, but only managing to stain his tunic with blood.

By this point, Cato had begun to speak through his blubbering. “I meant to come home last but I – I stayed at the inn and I didn’t think that – Oh, gods!”

The funeral was held the next day, far too soon for Cato. Janus had taken care of the grislier parts, wrapping up her body in linen, cleaning the floors as best he could and finding a good spot in the woods to bury her. It had to be the woods, as, though their presence was tolerated in the wider hold, the Jarl could not risk word getting out that he’d granted them entrance to Windhelm. She had to be buried deep to keep scavengers from digging her back up. Until they could have a nice headstone made, they marked her plot with a plank of wood and a ring of flowers. A priestess named Helgird came down from the city to deliver what little of a service there was, though none of the brothers could quite remember much of what she said and she excused herself after performing a short blessing.

Livia’s twin soon fell to his knees, again, crying for her and cursing himself for not preventing her death. No words of comfort could console him so his brothers let him mourn uninterrupted. 

Leaving the forest, the three men began to converse.

Janus was the first to speak, in a calm and serious tone. “I’ve commissioned a headstone and it should arrive about a week from now.”

Evander’s tone was far more sullen. “She’d have wanted to be buried with ma.” Their mother was buried in Whiterun, though foul rumours persisted of the Jarl having had were dug up and tossed into the river.

Vulcan was unwilling to let that comment go, given how weak Evander’s dedication to their mission had been. “If we’d have moved on with our plan, she could be. We could’ve kept her on the move, with us, always distracted, until we finally freed Skyrim and Whiterun with it.”

His brother was enraged by this. “Could you stop this nonsense?! How are we, four men, supposed to bring revolution to an entire country!?”

Vulcan shouted back, twice as loud and with more confidence. “We are our father’s sons! He proved how close just a single man could come to freeing our people!”

Evander drew his sword, as anger rocketed through his veins. “But he failed! And we all paid for his failure! And Liv has died for it!” This was his chance to free himself from Brynjar’s Band, to forge his own destiny. “His rotten legacy will be the death of us all!” With Vulcan’s own blade now drawn, Evander took a swing at him.

“You foolish boy!” The grey-haired man blocked the incoming strike with ease, knocking Evander’s sword to the ground. “We’ve waited years to see an ounce of bravery from you and it only now comes with betrayal!” He pressed Evander backwards, forcing him to trip and fall against a tree stump.

The young man’s eyes went wild and his breath became panicky as he felt the point of Vulcan’s sword touching his neck. “You are a tyrant just like father, and you’ll lead us to our doom.” His voice had lowered to little more than a whisper with the threat of death pushing against his larynx.

Vulcan’s voice also lowered, but in calmness rather than fear. He spoke plainly and honestly. “Not you, I won’t.” Evander’s eyes were concerned by his words. “You are free to break your oath, and disgrace us, just as you disgraced your father.”

“I have disgraced no one.” Evander’s tone was quietly defiant, though he still squirmed against his brother’s blade helplessly.

Vulcan showered him with bitter laughter. “Are you so sure of that? Why do you thing Brynjar chose a lioness for the design of your hilt? Do you think it was whimsy, on his part?”

Evander’s brow furrowed in confusion and he thought back to his teenage years, where he assumed there were only happy memories. After a few moments, however, Vulcan saw recognition cross over his eyes, as he remembered a few in particular, no less happy, but ones he’d always thought were kept secret from his father.

“That’s right, child. It’s because he knew what you got up when you went down to play with Eimar.” Vulcan’s posture become even more menacing. “He knew that boy was fucking you like a whore!” He spat at Evander, causing him to flinch and nick himself on the blade. “He knew something that took us years to realise; that you’ll never be a man, because you’d rather be a woman!” With that, he pulled his sword away. “Now, go on, get lost!”

Evander remained still, long enough to set Vulcan off into a rage. He gave his youngest brother a nasty kicking that cracked a few ribs, and was only stopped from beating the man to death by Janus, who pulled the first-born away. The, ever reasonable, Janus convinced his brother to walk away and, then, followed him after shooting Evander a look of quiet sympathy. After coughing up some blood, Livia’s little brother wandered back to her grave, nursing the left side of his rib cage the whole way. There, he found Cato. Livia’s twin hadn’t been stirred by the commotion but had fallen silent, kneeling down as if to beg his sister to forgive him.

Evander stood standing, painfully, as he dwelt on his memories of her. Specifically, he remembered having revealed to her the circumstances in which he lost his virginity. She hadn’t judged him but, instead, congratulated him. He wondered, now, if that had been an act; if she was just as disgusted with him as her brothers were, and had only pretended otherwise. Whilst he was entertaining such negative thoughts of her, he naturally began to question how the rest of his family had found out. He considered it unlikely that they could’ve just assumed it from the amount of time he spent with Eimar, since he remembered years prior that Cato had, similarly, had a friend he was always going away with. No, the more he ruminated, the more sure he was that Livia must’ve betrayed his secret.

After that, he felt dejected and left. He went to the inn, where he hoped to drown his sorrows. Iddra offered him drinks on the house, all of which he accepted with depressed resignation. With each step he took closer to drunkenness, he became surer and surer of his next move. He wanted to leave his brothers forever and start a new life for himself as a travelling bard; he’d sell his sword for a nicer lute if he had to. As it turned out, however, he didn’t need to, as Janus agreed to divvy out his share of the gold they’d plundered from Olaf’s manor. It came with two conditions; that he leave his sword to be kept safe should he ever wish to return, and that he leave sober in the morning, rather than drunk at night.

“You hate me, don’t you?” Evander was deeply emotional, through a combination of drink, grief and the knowledge that these were the last words he’d share with his brother.

“Of course not.” Janus kissed his brother on the forehead. “You’re my brother, I could never hate you.”

“How can you bear to touch a man of my nature?” The question came out, coated in bitterness and self-loathing. It was followed by a few drunken hiccoughs.

“You already know the answer.” He sounded the words out slowly. “ _You – are – my –brother_.” With that said, he sent Evander off to bed. Watching his brother staggering into his room, Janus let out a deep and long sigh. It was not long after that that a familiar rapping of the cabin door came. It brought with it some much-needed levity to his heart, which had been crushed under a terrible weight.

“I thought I ought to offer my condolences.” He motioned for the elf to come join him by the fireplace. She smiled politely and did so, offering him a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Where are you brothers?”

“Well, Evander is sleeping, and he’ll be leaving in the morning, and…” He pinched the bridge of his nose in tired frustration. “…Vulcan has caught wind of a large bounty on some bandit’s head – grief seems to increase appetite for killing – and Cato, well, if he’s back from the grave-site he’s probably at the inn.”

She lent him a comforting gaze and stroked his face. “Why is Evander leaving?”

He gripped her hand tightly and kissed its palm. “He’s wanted to leave us for a long time, and Vulcan’s finally given up trying to stop him.”

“Will he ever return?”

“I hope so, but I doubt it.” Janus was disappointed by his own pronouncement.

“Then, you’ll have lost two siblings, instead of one.” Her comment hurt him but it was true.

“You’re right, but there’s nothing I can do – there’s nothing I _would_ do. Evander must be allowed to make his own decisions. He’s a man, after all.”

“Ah, but sometimes men require guidance, for they may not fully understand the world.”

He smiled at that. “I am one such man, yes.” He kissed her, with love and devotion. “But Evander is sick of guidance. He wants to make mistakes and experience the harshness of reality for himself.”

“He will get hurt.”

“Such is his right.”

Dravynea accepted his final judgement. “Anyway, I must return to my camp. I am truly sorry for your loss.” As she said that, she motioned with her eyes to Evander’s room, she could see the man sleeping soundly in his muck-stained clothes atop the sheets of his bed.

“Must you go? I would like you to stay here tonight… I want to hold you.”

At the inn, Cato was expressing a similar sentiment, though one that was far less welcome. “I want to sleep in your bed tonight! I need you to hold me in your bosom and suckle me like a child!” He was completely pissed and still brutally grief-stricken, not a particularly sensible combination of moods.

“Keep your voice down.” Iddra was flustered and embarrassed by his outbursts, as they attracted unwanted attention from her other patrons.

“I shall not!” He giggled through his tears. “I shall proclaim my love to you for the whole world to hear!”

“Okay, it’s closing time, patrons! Come on now!” She ushered her customers out quickly, meeting their protests with promises of free drinks the next day and reminding them both of Cato’s drunkenness and his recent tragedy. Once they were all gone, she could speak more freely. “Is it your intention to ruin my marriage? Do you want to break my family apart, or do you simply wish to see me put in the stocks?”

As a form of answer, he rushed over to her and fell to his knees, sobbing into the skirt of her tunic. “I want to be your family! I want to make love to you again tonight, for every night until I die!” Looking down at him, she realised that she couldn’t trust herself to put him to bed in one of her rooms. It was a depressing realisation that she had become desperately attracted to him, but one she intended to correct. Though it caused her further embarrassment, and was far more likely to raise her husband’s suspicions once he got back from Windhelm, she decided to drag him through the streets, with her old patrons and yet more onlookers getting to hear his renewed attempts to bed her. Once she’d finally brought him to his cabin and dumped him on his brother, she felt a lot better about herself, as though she had come some way towards getting over him.

That feeling was crushed, however, when a sober and apologetic version of Cato appeared at the bar the following morning. He made a point to explain himself to several other patrons and even to his fellow miners, though he only managed the latter because Kjeld had overslept. It made her feel both better and worse; better because he went out of his way to make up for his behaviour and worse because it increased the depth of her feelings towards him. During his long day of work, she was able to formulate a strategy to keep them from spending another night together. She knew that if he were able to talk his way up her skirt for a second time, there’d be no hope of her getting over him.

So, once he came for his regular evening of drink and chatter, she made sure to keep her daughter up late. With the ten year old, Froa, sitting on the surface of the bar, Cato’s conversations with Iddra never went beyond idle banter and the odd veiled flirtation. Her efforts to dissuade him from pursuing her any further were in vain, however, as she’d miscalculated his intentions. Whilst purely sexual at first, Cato had since felt genuine affection begin to grow for her during their pillow talk and took this opportunity to ingratiate himself with her daughter. It came quite naturally to him. As a handsome man with many extraordinary tales to tell, he besotted the girl.

He played the long game and stayed after closing time. He was easily able to get away with such a thing as her plan backfired; Froa, far from pushing the man away, was responsible for keeping him there as she threatened to throw a wobbly if her mother sent him home. As it happened, they put her to bed together. He sat beside her to read her a bedtime story, since, obsessed with the stranger, she refused to hear it from her mother. Once he was done, he kissed her forehead and sent her into a deep, blissful, sleep. He wondered, briefly, if he might have crossed a line with that but, as he got up and turned to leave the room, he saw the girl’s mother standing at the door with a warm smile on her face.

“Her father has no time for her. He didn’t want a second child, even less a girl.”

“Then he’s a fool.” He kept his tone jovial, to avoid offending her, but she could tell he met it.

“A fool, and a bore, a wastrel and a terrible husband.” She wiped at her eyes after admitting that, before sighing the weight off her shoulders, shakily. He took her again that night, and she enjoyed it even more, now free from shame and uncertainty.

### 

4E 198, 11th of Frost Fall

“Commander Chastain! We’ve received the signal, the archers are in place!” Hadvar relayed the information through pants and heaving coughs. It was imperative that they move as soon as the archers had arrived, or they risked the enemy working out their plan.

“Good, then we move at once.” Emlyn was eager to put his plan into motion, though he was concerned with how intelligent the Forsworn had proved themselves to be. They excelled in the tactics of guerrilla warfare and, he feared, might figure out his plan, simply, by virtue of it being something they, _themselves_ , might’ve come up with.

“Yes, sir!” Hadvar rushed off to tell the other soldiers, who then began to form themselves into tight columns as planned. Emlyn only had time to give his horse a reassuring pat on the shoulder. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, old friend.” He neighed in agreement, or disagreement, or, perhaps for myriad other reasons and the commander rushed off to lead his troops. They marched hard and fast, making sure to keep themselves close together. They were few in number, compared to the roaming tribe they were about to be facing but they mostly trusted his word that they could win if they followed the plan. He reiterated various points as they went. “Remember; push them towards the river at all costs! Pick them off when you can but focus on corralling them!” They responded with grunts of acknowledgement. “Do not panic when we entered the forests! Panicking will get you killed and put your comrades in danger! Do you hear me!?”

“Yes, sir!” They steeled themselves for the long night ahead. It wasn’t long before they were deep in the forest and enemy mind games began. It started with strange noises, howls and screeches, seemingly coming from every direction. Creepy old magic.

“Ignore it, soldiers!” Soon after, the first few rounds of arrow fire went off, smacking against the front row of shields. “Maintain formation! Keep true!” The commander’s eyes were every watchful for the time at which he needed to initiate phase two. Until then, he needed his men to stay calm. “They cannot harm you at this distance!” The only person they could hurt was Emlyn himself, as he stood in front of the shield wall. In the dark, and from as far away as they were hovering, he could dodge or block the few arrows that came his way. “Keep moving!”

They did as commanded and marched forward a few dozen more feet. At a certain point, however, Emlyn noticed arrows begin to hit the corners of the front row of shields. That was his cue to switch gears. “Alright, people, phase two, and let’s move!” With that, the first row spaced itself apart, making room for their commander, who joined it. The second row spaced itself out further from the centre, and the third row went even further than that. Then, in one fluid motion, the ten columns became thirty-one and the three rows became one. “Charge!” With adrenaline pumping through their veins, the men swooped down on their enemy at break-neck pace, foiling their attempts to encircle the legionnaires.

They were able to pick off about seven men with ease, the forward archers who’d had no time to switch weapons, but they started to suffer unavoidable casualties once they hit the bulk of the enemy forces. He knew the biggest threat to them was the impulse to retreat amongst the newer recruits, however, so he had to block the grief from his mind. As he witnessed one good man, a father and husband, get his head smashed to pieces by a wild flurry of axe strikes, he shouted to his men, to keep them focused. “Move forward! No retreat, no surrender!” He cut the guilty party down with a clean sweep across the throat.

Pushing the enemy to the river was a very slow and very difficult process, as they all had to be ever vigilant that no one attempted to rush around them. Emlyn smashed his shield up against one of his attackers, knocking him to the ground and continuing the tough march forward. He came across the downed soldier; he noticed that he was barely more than a boy. The commander couldn’t afford to show mercy, however, or make exceptions, so he plunged his sword through the young man’s throat. Once he’d done so, he heard a woman shriek in grief and anger. He’d faced women warriors on occasion, and even once served with one. This was different, however, and as he parried the woman’s unbalanced strikes, he noticed her small frame and awkward posture. The Forsworn must have been in much more crisis than the reports had suggested if they were accepting women and boys into their militia so readily. She was given a few more moments to live, as this revelation shook him a little, but he refused to let his concerns affect the battle and he cut her down with a few effortless swipes.

He could breathe a sigh of relief once they got to the edge of the river. One of his soldiers bellowed out the rehearsed order. “Shields up, men! Archers! Fire!” With that, the twenty-two men who remained on the imperial side all pulled backwards and fell behind their shields. There must’ve been about forty Forsworn militiamen left and they’d have eventually won if it weren’t for phase three. As they looked around for about half a second, most seeming confused but others baring looks of grave recognition, they were pelted with a barrage of arrows; some were caught in the head, others were punctured through their heart or lungs and still more had arrows shot through less immediately essential areas. None survived, however, as Emlyn’s troops emerged from behind their shields to pick off the remainder of the enemy forces.

### 

4E 199, 8th of Rain’s Hand

Elfa steadied her bow, breathing long careful breaths. The stag was within sight, moving cautiously towards the stream. She could feel her arm growing weak, as she’d been standing with her bow taught for what seemed like hours. It paid off, however, once he finally emerged fully from the thickets. She released her arrow and it flew, strong and true, towards him. It was a nice clean shot, straight through the heart and he collapsed in an instant. She felt adrenaline rush through her, and an ecstatic grin grace her lips. She moved forward, bounding and sprinting gracefully along the other side of the river, up to the nearest narrow point. The swim across slowed her down but only kept her eyes off the prize for a matter of seconds.

As she clambered out, however, she heard terrible words in the distance. “Gerdur! Gerdur, come quick, I’ve got a deer!”

Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest, demanding to be set free from her rib cage, as she searched for the source of the sound. To her infinite dismay, she saw an elf hovering over her kill. “Knife-eared bastard!” Her bitter words did not reach him, as they came through gritted teeth. She beat at the dirt in fury and frustration, as she saw the elf hold the stag’s head up by its antlers, clearly showing some other person.

“Faendal, that’s brilliant. This must be the first stag you’ve ever killed!” A woman’s voice congratulated the thief and Elfa had to turn away in indignant disappointment. She went back to her camp, to fish and catch nothing. On days like these, she often wondered if she’d made the right choice; the poacher’s life was just as hard as the peasant’s but far lonelier and thankless. Her brow furrowed as her years’ old inner turmoil resurfaced. She’d avoided the prospect of marriage, which she greatly detested, and had, in a way, found freedom, but her dreams had certainly not been fulfilled. No army would take her and she still had that inconvenient little thing called pride keeping her from banditry. There was, also, that nagging part of her that never failed to keep her reminded of the fact that what had really spurred her to take the final plunge was a girl who’d promised to follow her but who never had. She hated that memory, however, so she blocked it out again and decided to turn in for an early night.

Her plans were scuppered when, just as she rolled her tent door down, she heard footfall and the sloshing of water; those were sounds her ears were trained for, warnings that someone had manoeuvred their way to her secluded encampment. She bolted out of her tent wielding the knife she always kept by the side of her bedroll. Realising she was beset by neither bandits nor lawmen, she lowered her weapon, though she was no more thrilled by the sight of the elf who’d stolen her kill. 

Faendal stood, looking awkward and wary, offering her a large slice of venison. She snatched it from him and wolfed into down, feeling vulnerable as she chewed her food hungrily in her underwear amidst the cold night air. “I thought it was only fair for you to have a piece.” He smiled sheepishly.

“It would’ve been fair to leave my kill alone!”

“And, then, to have reported signs of poaching to the Jarl?”

She shot him a violent look. “Piss off!”

“You could come work in Riverwood, you know?”

“I could not, I’m a wanted woman and, either way, I wouldn’t want to.” She went back inside her tend, ending their conversation before he could suggest anything else so stupid.

With her hunger well satisfied, she slept more soundly than usual. Rather than annoying her, the chirping of the birds in the morning simply gave voice to the buzz she felt within herself. Her mission for the day was to steal something nice from the local hag, whose cabin stood within the small woods on the other side of the river. Such a task was easier thought of than done, but she wasn’t deterred by the prospect of failure. Such a woman, living out of bounds, was likely to be on the wrong side of the law, so the worst Elfa thought she could expect would be some shouting and cursing.

She approached the cabin stealthily, rushing from thicket to thicket, timing her commotion with the natural rumblings of forest life, constantly checking all about before moving. Once she got to the backside, she crouched below the window and pressed herself against the wooden panelling. She could hear noise coming from below, muffled shouting and laughing. Risking a peek over the windowsill, she saw that the hag’s bed had been pulled away from the far wall. Squinting, she could partially see an iron cellar door. That only convinced her further that the woman might have something worth stealing, if she could afford such a contraption and the lower level it guarded. She heaved herself over the windowsill, trying to avoid making too much noise. She was overjoyed to discover an array of tinctures and tonics lining the shelves. In fact, she was so overjoyed that she let out a stifled squeak. Her heart sank as the cabin fell silent, the noise she’d heard coming from the cellar gone completely. “Shit.” She muttered under her breath and took as much as she could, sweeping the potions into her satchel, knocking a few to the floor in the process, before zooming out the front door. Her instincts kicked in, along with a healthy dose of adrenaline, and she ducked and dived through the thickest portion of forest she could find and then going deeper, and not stopping until she was thoroughly out of breath.

It was only as she slumped against a tree in exhaustion that her rational mind took over. She was then nagged by single question. Why had she run so fast from some mad old crone? Failing to find a decent answer, she burst out into a fit of tired laughter. Once she was all laughed out, she kicked her head back against the trunk and closed her eyes for a moment of rest. On her way back, the long way around, she had the time to look through her satchel. Fortunately, she’d picked up quite a few items and none of them had leaked or shattered. She was not particularly well educated in medicine or alchemy but she knew brightly coloured liquid in hand-sized glasses tended to be worth a fair amount of coin. Whom she’d sell them to was another matter, which she allowed her unconscious mind to work on as she focused on getting back to camp.

She was not pleased to find Faendal standing by her boat. “What is it this time, elf?” She spat her question out with bitterness.

“I thought you might like to chat.”

“With you?” Her nostrils flared and she contorted her lips into a grimace of petty disgust.

“I doubt you get many other visitors.” His tone had remained pleasant the entire time, not rising to her aggression.

She sighed and shrugged, admitting he was right. “Just say your piece, and then go.”

“I was wondering what you were wanted for. You don’t seem like the violent sort, or else you’d have taken to banditry. If you stole something, it can’t have been worth much for you to be living as a poacher.”

She pulled a face, making it obvious she thought he was clueless. “Do you know nothing of Whiterun’s laws?”

“Only that I may hunt, and you may not.” He was a wood elf and was used to much simpler customs.

“I’m a peasant-off-the-land, they’d hang me if they caught me.”

“I don’t understand. There are a few people in Riverwood who worked as peasants before they lived here. _They_ are not wanted men.”

“They are old, though, aren’t they?”

“How did you know?”

“They must have purchased their property before the revolt.”

“The peasants’ revolt, yes, I’ve heard about that.”

“The Jarl’s revenge was savage and the peasantry is now bound to the land by law.” It felt odd to point something out that seemed so obvious. It had been a fact-of-life for her, growing up, as she’d been barely twelve when the rebellion broke out.

“Oh.” The look he gave her bordered on pity, causing her to spit bitterly onto the ground. “Well, just so you know, most everyone in Riverwood knows you’re out here.” That startled her, so he quickly continued. “And none of them have ever brought it up with guards the Jarl sends every now and then.”

She was on the back foot now. “Okay, well – yes, that’s nice – I suppose that’s good of them.” She looked away from him, feeling somewhat ashamed of her abrasive behaviour. “All the same, I’d still much rather live out here.”

He could sense, now that her guard was down, that her pride was at stake so he didn’t press her further. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you alone.”

“Thanks.” He did as she asked, though a part of her wished he hadn’t. And another part of wished she’d gone to Riverwood like he’d implied she should. Still, the primary motivating forces in her life, pride and a desire for freedom at all costs, assured her she’d made the right choice. One day Britt would come running into her arms, apologise for letting her down and they’d ride off into the sunset. Elfa spat on the ground once again, before turning in for the night. It was as she was putting her satchel down that one thing Faendal had said to her clicked; if everyone in Riverwood really did know about her, and they were content not to bring the law down on her, then she may very well have been able to dump those potions on the local trader. Lying down on her bedroll, and trying to get to sleep on a hungrier stomach than the night before, she had no idea that she might need to be any warier than she usually was.

When she was roused from her sleep in the dead of night, by the smell of burning fabric, then, she bolted up right and came out of her tent swinging. Finding no one in the immediate vicinity, she rushed to find her water bucket. To her horror, it had vanished. All too aware that fire waits for no man, and that her tent was slowly being burned to a crisp, she rushed back in for her bedroll. She thrashed it about, smacking the flames with panicky swings. She was able to stifle the flames eventually, but not until her tent had been rendered totally unusable.

It was at this point, as her heart began to fall back to its usual pace, and her panic turned to dejection, that she heard a noise that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. From deep within the darkness, beyond the river, hysterical cackling broke through the air. Elfa shot around to try to get a good look at its author. Instead, all she could see was blackness. The cackling got louder as time went on, there were no pauses for breath, as the sound simply went on and on. Soon enough, it had become loud enough to physically hurt. She covered her ears and screamed out in pain, but neither action helped. At some point, she passed out from the agony of an old woman’s never-ending laughter.

The first thing she noticed, when she came to, was the awful stench of rotten flesh. Her nostrils flared in disgust and she began to boke. “Oh, I do apologise dear. I’m afraid I’m used to it by now, so I sometimes forget the smell is unpleasant to strangers.” The words of a dithering old crone brought her to her senses. She opened her eyes to find the woman she’d stolen from standing face to face with her, smiling wickedly, dressed in simple black robes. She tried to strike the hag, which is when she realised that she was chained to the ceiling, of wherever she was. She resorted to kicking but was stifled even there by cuffs on her ankles. “You are feisty little girl, aren’t you? Oh, we’re going to have fun with you! I’ve invited my niece. You’ll be her first kill.” The witch made her first mistake then, trying to add to the menace of her statement by bring her face closer to Elfa’s. The poacher broke the crone’s nose with a savage head butt.

“Do your worst! You stupid bitch!” She spat at her for good measure.

The witch’s response back after she recoiled in shock and pain before transitioning to a fit of disturbing giggles. “Oh, I intend to, dearie.”

Elfa masked her fear with defiance. “Come near me again and I’ll fucking bite!” She hurtled yourself towards the witch with all her weight, mashing her jaws as she did so. The motion got her close but she was quickly jerked back by the momentum of the swing.

The old hag laughed at that one, throwing her head back so that Elfa could see her mouth, wide open, and her nose dripping with blood. “I think I’ll get started by myself. What do you say to me taking an eye out?” She accompanied her question with a toothy grin; those few teeth that weren’t drenched in blood were an awful yellowy brown hue.

Elfa rattled against her chains in defiant anguish, baring her teeth, spitting and kicking in vain. The witch produced a knife, small but sharp, and took no time in bringing it up close to her prisoner’s face. All Efla could do was pull away, as far as her already strained arms could take her, stifling her impulse to plead and whimper as she did so. As the blade was pressed firmly against her eye socket, prodding at her iris through skin, she prayed for a saviour. As the witch’s knife began to dig, she tried to think of some last ditch effort she could make to free herself. She could think of nothing, and so began to cry. As the first few tears fell, from mortal fear, more soon came gushing as the shame of showing weakness in her final hour broke her further.

As it happened, she was not released by the bittersweet embrace of death, but by the saviour she’d prayed for. The hag’s blade fell to the floor and the hideous woman died before Elfa could even dare to open her eyes. When she did, she saw the witch collapsed on the floor with a gushing red wound on the small of her bag, and her heroine standing proudly over the body. Tears, once again, rained down the poacher’s face but these were tears of tremendous joy. “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll have you down in a second.”

Her rescuer was an older woman, with dirty blonde hair and a weathered face. “Who – who are you and where – how did you find me?”

“My name’s Delphine. Faendal found your burnt-out tent and asked me to help look for you.” She said this as she unlocked the young woman from her chains.  
“And why did you think to check here?”

“An old lady living alone deep in the woods, whose husband no-one can remember. That’s a witch, no doubt. It may be superstitious to think, but superstition has served me well, and now you.”

Elfa cursed her peasant ignorance as she fell, free of her restraints. It was then that she released just how much energy she’d expended trying to break free. Her knees felt weaker than a child’s and her arms felt heavier than a giant’s. She cried out her response into Delphine’s arms as the older woman pulled her into a comforting hug. “I didn’t know witches really existed – I – I thought they were tales we told children to stop them running off – Oh, gods, I thought I’d die here!”  
“There, there. It’s alright. It’s alright, I’m here now.” Elfa was an adult, by most standards, but there was enough of an age difference between them that, combined with her blubbering, Delphine was affected by her maternal impulses. “Let’s get you out of this place.”

This produced a wail of emotion from the poacher. “I don’t have anywhere to go!” She began to cough and sputter as a new wave of sadness rolled over her.  
“I own an inn; you can stay in one of my rooms free of charge.” She stroked Elfa’s hair and pulled her to her feet, supporting her faltering steps as they emerged from the cabin cellar and out into the dusk.


	4. ... and the lusts that stayed them!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are not dealing with mythic heroes. Rather, we are dealing with men of carnal desire and unknowable hearts.

4E 199, 6th of Hearthfire

Windhelm’s upper class were a sorry sight, to Janus’ discerning eye; he could tell by their assorted costumes, some needlessly extravagant, others hideously mismatched, that the city’s merchants and landlords were still unsure of themselves. Most were too poor to afford fine clothes, and so he saw many wearing jackets and coats of rich purples and reds with tattered old shirts and trousers beneath. Only Ulfric commanded respect by his appearance, not wearing the most expensive outfit but certainly the most consistent, in the warlike style of the Jarls of old.

“It gives me great pleasure to host this debate.” The Jarl’s cocky smile was unmistakable; this was another transgression, in a long list, against the High King. He loved to make such bold provocative moves, never too far but very often. “I’m sure it will prove entertaining enough for my esteemed guests, the noble of our city.” The crowd, gathered around the long dining table applauded and cheered, flattered by his words, though Janus seemed to detect a hint of sarcasm in them, as Ulfric’s guests were neither noble of birth nor spirit, so he smiled inwardly. “But, if that does not satisfy you, I’ve prepared a feast.” That line secured yet more cheers and applause and Janus could tell the vast majority of men sat around the table hadn’t attended a single debate in their lives and knew only of his father’s work through tall tales and gossip. “Without any further ado, let’s begin. I believe the proposition was ‘The works of Brynjar Black-Wolf show us a way forward.’ Arguing for it, shall be Brynjar’s son, Janus, and arguing against shall be my steward, Jorleif.”

Both men received some applause, though Jorleif’s was distinctly louder. As was customary, Janus was the first to speak, from behind his lectern. He was extremely confident, and generated an aura of quiet authority around himself. “Let me start by thanking the Jarl for his decision to allow my family entry into this wonderful city.” That got a roar of approval from one guest, who had already begun liquoring himself up, and a slight smile from the Jarl himself. “As my father so keenly elucidated in his treatise on the rights of the citizen, slavery is no fit state for a man and it warms my heart to be given safe haven after my escape, along with my brothers.”

Jorleif began an interjection at this point. It was against the loose code of conduct for debates such as these, but the Jarl was not particularly interested in enforcing them. “Ah, I must stop you there. You say that slavery is no fit state for a man, but such a statement is patently absurd. What of the Argonians, should we free them all from servitude? And what of our prisoners, should we release them all back into the city?” His questions impressed the dim-witted audience, and Janus heard one man’s wife mutter that she owned an Argonian herself and thought it rude for Janus to speak of freeing them, even though he’d said no such thing.

“Those are two very different questions. As to the first, my father spoke of the rights of man. Argonians are, evidently, a lesser race to which such things do not apply. Their slavery is more easily compared with the rearing of livestock than with the condition I found myself in, as a being of inherent dignity.” This answer pacified the crowd, who murmured their contentment. “As for the latter, imprisonment differs from slavery in that it reflects the legitimate judgement of the sovereign. Slavery does not.”

“Ah, but you and your brothers were sentenced to enslavement by the sovereign, were you not?” This question received far less applause, principally because many of the guests genuinely didn’t know the answer.

“Yes, but I spoke of the _legitimate_ judgement of the sovereign. The sovereign has legitimate authority over the citizenry insofar as he represents the general will of the people. One man cannot possess authority over another, lest he be the sovereign. It follows, then, that slavery is illegitimate as it places one man under the authority of another, naturally equal to him in rank.” A portion of the crowd applauded for that, wishing to seem as though they understood what he had just said.

“I’ve got you there!” Jorleif seemed overjoyed, as he launched into a well-prepared tirade. “Brynjar spoke of things such as the natural equality of men. That is such obvious tripe! Men are separated by station, according to the will of the gods. Our king, and our jarl were both divinely chosen to lead us.” He directed that last sentence at Ulfric, though he did not receive the kindness he’d been searching for, as Janus could tell that Ulfric objected to the notion that Skyrim’s High King had been chosen by the gods.

“You make recourse to the gods but do not truly understand their works. You accept the divine nature of authority, yet fail to note that the line of kings has not passed seamlessly from father to son. If it is accepted that those men who successfully usurp the throne do so with the consent of the gods, which it must be lest you consider all of Skyrim’s lords illegitimate, then one wonders how you cannot accept my father’s writings.”

Jorleif, now irritated that his line of argument had not worked as he had hoped, become more animated in his response. “Your father made no mention of the gods in his works. In fact, rumours abound that he was an atheist!” This scandalised the crowd, and several women let out audible gasps of horror.

Janus did not rise to the bait by denying the rumours, as that would lead them away from the point he was determined to make. “My father went deeper than _reference_. For those who truly understand the gods, that is plain to see. Brynjar showed us why kings rise and fall. Is it not the case that consternation amongst the people far more often leads to rebellions and wars of succession than controversies of birth and heritance?” It was, though the crowd were unsure and remained dumbly silent. “Is this not reflective of Brynjar’s principal observation; that a natural law exists, an unwritten contract between the sovereign and its people?”  
Jorleif took too long to respond, so the Jarl decided to become personally involved. “I do not think so. Rather, I think it means that the gods bless better leadership upon their followers in times of hardship.”

Rather than be intimated, continuing the debate but with a jarl in his steward’s stead only increased Janus’ wariness. “The general will, however, can be determined by the rational interests of the people. So, when the people ae mistreated and demand better leadership, the trend is _always_ towards satisfaction of those interests. That is why we see a natural tendency for those in power to grant greater and greater rights to their citizens. It is why all of these people are sitting here today, is it not? In the days of your grandfather, and certainly _his father_ , only those of noble blood or legendary heroes were deemed fit to dine with a hold’s jarl.” Reminded of their common blood, many more of the guests began to increase their progress towards drunkenness. “And in such cases where the interests of the people are not being served, rebellion naturally arises, such as in the case of the peasants’ revolt against Jarl Balgruuf for which I was imprisoned.”

“I’m pleased you brought that up.” Ulfric _did_ seem genuinely pleased, smiling from ear to ear. “I believe, as smart as your father obviously was, his own great act of revolution is the clearest proof of the flaws in his thinking.”

“How so? The reasons for our failure have been documented, and they were purely military in nature. Our ideas were correct, and they had the support of the people.”  
“No, I believe you, your brothers and your father, had the support of the people but not your ideas.” The jarl had clearly been dying to say this for some time. “Think about it. The demands of the peasantry were not the rational ones which your father spoke of, such as property rights and access to the city, both of which the jarl was already taking steps to address anyhow, but the right to worship Talos.”

“Freedom of religion was a cause to which Brynjar was very committed.” Janus could feel the momentum of the debate beginning to go against him.

“Oh, no doubt he was, but it still does not fit. The ban on Talos worship was not brought by Balgruuf, but by the conditions of the White-Gold concordant, to which he was not a party. It just so happens that he was more willing to enforce the law than true Nords, such as us. You’ve got to admit, also, that your father’s _actual_ desires were always to empower the city folk. Most peasants are too poor to afford property in the city, or even to rent there, so the laws that restrict them which your father so detested were irrelevant to the majority of them, anyhow.”

“They knew what was right and wrong, in principle.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I think, instead, that your father saw his opportunity to cease power and found willing followers amongst the peasantry by playing off their religious grievances. I do not begrudge him in this. In fact, if he’d have won, I’d have been the first to call him a hero. As things stand, however, this work seems to have been for naught.”

“I think you’ll find his philosophy is alive and well, and has been disseminated throughout the country by his death, far more widely than it could’ve been even by his victory.”

“Well, that’s something we can never be truly sure of. You say the peasants speak highly of your father because they believe in his ideas of a bright new future. I say they speak of him as they would a folk hero who defended their right to worship as their traditional ways dictate. I suppose we can’t know which of us is right, lest we take a survey of the thousands of men who toil our country’s fields.” Janus was, inwardly, relieved that the jarl had ended their debate on such a conciliatory note, and left feeling slightly dejected.

### 

4E 200, 23rd of Mid Year

Reaping was backbreaking labour but Andor excelled at it. He was, in fact, the ideal peasant, a man of great strength and no ambition. He loved his simple life and knew nothing else. He had taken to humming as he worked, always alert to the patrol of the city guards. None of the guards were ever friendly but Andor bore them no ill will. Unlike his fellows, Andor was a rare peasant with no grievances. He ate well and had no great longing for life away from the land, and so he was content most days. This day began as no exception, and he hadn’t even the slightest clue that it might bring him his doom.

As it approached lunchtime and he started to wind himself down, mopping the sweat from his brow with his tunic, he caught the faint sound of yelling from far off to the edges of the field. He looked for the source but found nothing out of the ordinary. As he began his trek home, however, he heard another round of yelling, coming from the same direction but much closer. Even though he still couldn’t see anything, the fact that some of the men around him had also turned to that direction, clearly looking for the same noise he was, convinced him that he ought to go over and check it out. During his jog over, which soon turned into a sprint, he could hear the yelling getting louder and clearer.

“Giants! Giants are attacking!” Andor would’ve found the voice’s author mad, if he hadn’t come across the most frightening piece of evidence to the contrary. Wandering down from the hillside was the most monstrous creature he’d ever seen, a man of gargantuan size, taller than most buildings, and rivalling the height of the city walls. The beast seemed human in the most basic sense, but his skin was pale and leathery. Most startling off all was the giant’s face, not angry or aggressive, simply joyful. The creature wore a goofy smile and chuckled away to himself as he caused wanton mayhem and destruction, swinging his club, which itself was the size of a normal man, every which way and raking up the earth with every step he made. “He’s coming for the cattle!” The voice was right, the giant was stomping happily and awkwardly towards a herd of cows; they were fenced in and, either way, could not outrun his massive stepping distance.

Andor may have been simple – In fact, he was certain he was, on account of the way he’d always been picked on as a child – but he was definitely not a coward. His size and strength had always brought a sense of courage with them and, though he was now confronted by someone of far greater size, it did not fail him in this instance. His fight-or-flight reflex kicked in and he rushed over to the monster, still wielding his scythe. The giant regarded him with curious bemusement but, otherwise, ignored him in pursuit of a quick snack. That was his chance to strike, and he made the most of it. Just as the giant reached out to grab one of the cows, Andor used all of his might to jam the blade of his scythe into his heel. The oafish monster let out an ungodly shriek and retracted his hand. Andor knew he had to make another move if he valued his own life, so he attempted a feat of strength he imagined was likely to be impossible. He pulled as hard as he could, wrenching the scythe away from the giant. To his everlasting joy, he’d managed to hook the tendon in the giant’s heel and, though his scythe snapped under the pressure, he was able to trip the raider over.

Once it had collapsed, a dozen or so men, who had suddenly found their courage, rushed up to chop and cut frantically at the beast’s head and arms. Their enemy let out a few last cries of rage and terror before dying in petrified agony. Soon after that, some city guards came rushing down. Abrasive as ever, they urged the peasants to go back to their homes. Andor was pleased to hear, as he left, however, that many of the women who’d come out of hiding, and apparently seen the whole thing, tried singing his praises to them. He was even more pleased to be greeted by his wife, who’d learnt of his brief adventure by the time he’d got home. Gossip, it seemed, travelled faster than he did, and he remarked upon that fact, finding it magical. Upon interrogation, however, he was forced to admit that he’d not gone straight home and had popped into his friend’s home for some mead.

“Come on now Britt, surely a hero deserves a small drink.” He was beaming, with their five-year old son Arne upon his lap.

“I suppose so.” She spoke tiredly as she suckled their daughter, Elfa.

“And tonight, surely a hero also deserves the sort of reward only his wife can offer him.” He loved to push his luck with his wife, if only because it never seemed to run out. His demands for sex were met almost as often as his demands for her share of the meat. Within months of becoming his wife, Britt had become quite gaunt. It had made her a lot less attractive, but his appetite was slightly more important to him than his sex drive, so he’d learned to live with it.

Britt rolled her eyes and let out a shaky shrug. “I suppose so.” He could tell she wasn’t looking forward to it, as indeed she never was, but he thought himself entitled to it nonetheless.

“I can only hope Arne finds a wife as obliging as you, my dear.” He ruffled his son’s blonde hair, as he spoke, though Arne was completely innocent to his meaning.  
“Yes.” Britt’s reply was dull and exhausted. “But, for now, I think it’s his bed time.”

“Oh, ma, please can I stay up?” Arne’s tone was earnest, rather than petulant, and she prided herself on the fact that she was raising him to be a polite boy. “I want to hear some more about the giant.”

Andor would usually have given the boy his silent support, as he often considered his wife too strict with him. On this occasion, however, with the prospect of sex now on the table, he backed her up. “Now, now, boy, you can hear all about it from me in the morning.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I promise, just so long as you can get up early enough to catch me. And you’ll need get to sleep soon to manage that, won’t you?”

“Yes, pa. I’ll go to bed right away.” With that, the little scamp carried himself off to bed.

“Right then, dear, I’ll be heading to bed myself. I eagerly await your arrival.” He smiled broadly before living her to clear up. When she got up to bed, he was sprawled out atop the furs stark naked; he’d already brought his member up to full attention and was regarding her with a look he imagined was seductive.

She sighed deeply and put the baby in its cot before undressing herself. As she did so, he began to pleasure himself in a manner that made her skin crawl. She clambered onto their bed as quickly as possible so that she could keep his penis out of her sight. She laid herself flat and rigid as usual, staring straight up at the ceiling, mentally begging for a short completion time.

He obliged her and she only had to struggle under his heavy and sweaty body for a minute or two. He grunted as he came, and she stayed silent.

### 

4E 200, 17th of Last Seed 

Kurigul walked into Garakh’s hut with passionate thoughts on his mind. She was toiling at her forge as he entered but immediately stood up and used the opportunity to make her case. “Chief, you must take me as your wife. I am of good stock and I long to be with child.” Her words had been carefully prepared, and they sounded like a battle report.

“I have no interest in you.” He cast her a derisive glance before continuing through her hut in search of her apprentice.

“Please, for the good of the tribe you must marry.” He ignored her pleading; having heard those exact words a dozen times too many from Atub.

“Lob, where are you? I wish to bed you!”

Garakh muttered her disapproval. “Such a child.” Evidentially, he’d heard, as, seconds later, he had her by the throat shove up against the nearest wall.

“Show some deference, woman! I am your chief!”

She cowered, as much to the customs of her tribe, and the loyalty expected of her, as to his intimidating stature. He released his grip, as soon as she did so, refusing to be kept distracted by her insolence. Lob emerged soon after, looking bewildered.

“What is it you wish of me, my chief?” He played dumb, hoping not to be embarrassed in front of his boss.

Kurigul was unwilling to indulge him. “You heard me; I want to take you from behind!” He was a bold man, and more than a little drunk. Drunkenness was a common state for him, now, as tribal leadership turned out to be a lot more demanding than he’d initially anticipated.

Lob was torn in multiple directions; his lover’s inebriated state turned him off but his body still made him weak. More than that, he had strong social pressure bearing down upon him; the shame of being emasculated in front of his master, on the one hand, and the duty he possessed towards his chief, on the other. Ultimately, he decided to be led by his duty, as that made for a marginally easier life. Whilst Garakh’s daily barbs were annoying and upsetting, he doubted he could ever live with himself if he disappointed his chief and boyhood lover. “As you wish.”

With the go-ahead, Kurigul pushed Lob through into another room, separated from the rest of the hut only be a flimsy wooden door that, in any case, he left open. He forced the weaker man down onto his knees and demanded oral stimulation. Lob obliged and Kurigul soon felt himself moist enough to enter his partner more intimately. He fucked Lob angrily and roughly, causing immense pain and pleasure for the both of them. After his climax, he fell lazily onto the earth and hay, leaving the other orc to finish himself off. He looked upon his chief, now enveloped in the bliss of drunken sleep, with a mixture of longing and resentment.

As boys, and young men, their affair had meant more; they kissed more, talked more and the sex went on far longer with each man caring equally for the other. He shamed himself for thinking in such womanly terms, as he felt tears threatening to flood. He felt his erection begin to falter before he’d properly ended it so he focused his thoughts solely on his lover’s body before ejaculating onto the stone wall. He let out a teary and shaky sigh afterwards, and then slumped himself against Kurigul’s sleeping body. He whispered to himself and to Kurigul, as though he could hear. “The people have turned against you; you know? More and more each day join the search for a challenger. Some have even asked me to challenge you. Can you imagine that?” He chuckled lightly, to avoid sobbing.

Lob had to wonder, every day after that, if Kurigul had heard him through his sleep because, on the very next day, their chief had vanished without a trace. It took weeks to find new leadership, which was eventually taken up by Atub. The wise woman declared the chiefdom vacant until Malacath made his will clear. Such a vague proclamation was taken by a few of the tribe’s smarter members, including Lob, to mean that she would rule until her death.

As for Kurigul, he wandered. Never speaking a word of where came from, nor where he was going, to anyone. It just so happened then, a month or so later, that fate arranged for two wanderers to meet each, men of remarkable similarity as well as difference.

“Leave me in peace, boy.” Bards were a nuisance the orc had quickly grown tired of as he encountered them in his wanderings. They had an annoying habit of singing and playing music.

“I’m not a boy. I’m a man grown.”

“You are a human, and pretty one at that.” Kurigul saw the bard shiver under his gaze. “I shall call you whatever I like.” He took great pleasure in intimidating the boy.

“I could play for you, if you’d like.”

“Not at all. I’d rather die than hear another damn bard’s song.”

“Then you mustn’t value your life very much.”

“You are right. I long for death, though no one I have encountered in my travels has had the stones to take me on.”

“Tell me your story.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll play a song.” The bard offered that line up with a cheeky grin.

“I could just as easily ring your neck.” The orc was only half joking.

“You’d hurt a pretty little thing like me?” Evander hoped, to high heaven, that he’d read the man correctly, and that such a come-on wouldn’t get him beaten or worse. To his pleasant surprise, the orc offered him a smile and they shared a light round of laughter.

“Alright, boy, I’ll tell you my story.” And so he did. His words, along with his magnificent body, barely clothed by a simple fur skirt, kept Evander rapturously involved. He prompted the big green man at select moments, to keep him on track, but otherwise stayed quiet until the very end.

“And, now, I wander.”

“Do you still love him?”

“I could never stop loving him. He was my first, and my only.” The orc’s words spoke to something deep within the youngest son of Brynjar Black-Wolf. He remembered his own first love and secret nights they’d shared together. It all served to further stir the well of attraction he felt towards the beast of a man sitting before him, on the ground.

“Could you ever love another man?”

“No.” Kurigul saw the disappointment in the bard’s eyes. “I could _make_ love to another, however.” He made sure to meet Evander gaze as he delivered that pronouncement. It had the intended effect and the young man began to undress, silently. He knew that he’d have to be gentle but he was eager to know the boy.  
They didn’t get off to the best start. Their initial kiss was awkward, as the orc’s lips were far too large and his tusks, small though they were, dug into Evander’s mouth roughly and unpleasantly. The human took to kissing Kurigul’s neck and chest after that. The wandering orc allowed the smaller creature to take the lead, offering his body up for exploration. It had been years since he’d felt so carefree. He pulled away the loose knot that kept his skirt on before Evander had even finished worshipping his chest; providing the young man with quite a shocking discovery. As he went down past the orc’s solid abs, his lips brushed past the base of the ex-chief’s hulking member. Flaccid, it seemed to be a good nine inches. “Bloody hell.” He grinned, and managed to tease another inch out. After that he took the green man to completion with his mouth and he, in turn, was obliged.

They did not lay in each other’s arms that night, though they did stay up for an outdoors version of pillow talk. “What about your first time, pretty boy?” Kurigul felt extremely confident after having witnessed the astonished look his manhood had inspired in the bard.

“I suppose that’s a fair question.” He thought back to the night in question; he felt a lot of happiness to be remembering such a wonderful time but, also, immense sadness for the fact that it was now so lost to him. “I was thirteen, and I’d brought my best friend over for the night as I often did – we were inseparable as children, running through the town, or out in the fields, without a care in the world…” His eyes lit up as he recounted such a detail. “Anyway, yes, he was sleeping over…”  
“What was his name?” The orc’s interjection was a welcome one.

“He was called Eimar – I wonder how he’s doing now – but, yes, anyway, he was sleeping over. My father was wealthy so he would sleep on a fine velvet bedroll on the floor – until that night, of course. We had played doctor earlier in the day, and fooled around some, though we were innocent. Some hour in to the night, however, I noticed that he’d not fallen asleep but, rather, was staring at my arm, which I had draped over my bed. It was a slow process from thereon, as we each took bolder and bolder steps. I offered him my hand, placing it on his chest. He pulled it beneath his bottoms. I arouse his manhood. He began to kiss my arm, and so on.”  
“You humans seem to live such peaceful lives.”

“As children, perhaps, but, as adults, most humans carry a lot of violence in their hearts.”

“It’s hard to imagine that but I’ll take your word for it.” Kurigul chuckled away to himself before turning in.

### 

4E 200, 4th of Sun’s Dusk

“The king is dead! The king is dead!” And so went the frantic cry of messengers all over Skyrim. Set-up just outside a small village in the Rift, the message served as a signal for Brynjar’s Band to begin its work. Cato took the west, Janus took the east and, most dangerous of all, Vulcan took the land surrounding Riften itself.

“Take care brothers and, remember, ride to Kynesgrove when your work is done.” Vulcan’s horse was grey, like what remained of his hair.

Janus responded with a curt nod before bolting. “Aye, brother.” Cato’s horse was the tallest; a black beauty of remarkable speed, won by his father in a wager he’d made somewhere in Cyrodiil.

Once they reached the bulk of the peasantry in their respective areas, they darted through the fields sharing their message with all who would hear it. They each shared the same opening gambit. “I am the son of Brynjar Black-Wolf, I come with a message from Ulfric Sotrmcloak, the true high king!” References to Brynjar usually managed to pique a peasant’s interest. “A Skyrim led by Ulfric, free from the empire, would reinstate the worship of Talos, and address the grievances of the poor!” That last part was not, officially, sanctioned by Ulfric but it suited their own ulterior motives to include it.

Cato had tremendous success, though they all achieved their aims. His natural charisma added to the overall appeal of his message. The handsome man, with blonde hair and blue eyes, riding a stead whose beauty few peasants would have known, enjoyed cheers and applause. “The jarl must be told that you will not toil until she pledges her allegiance to our cause!”

When he arrived at their cabin near Kynesgrove, he did so a day later than his brothers had expected, and with a guest in toe. Janus answered the door and brought his younger brother in for an impulsive hug. “Cato! You’re here! We thought you’d been caught! We were planning to go searching for you.”

“I’m fine. I just stayed in Ivarstead for a day is all.”

Janus responded with a look of confusion. “Why? You were supposed to head straight back up- and who’s this?” A young woman poked her head out from behind his brother.

“I’m Fastred. Pleased to meet you!” He shook the woman’s hand but regarded her with bemusement.

“Brother, why have you brought one of the peasants back with you?” He gave Cato the kind of look that implied he already knew the answer and did not approve.  
“Oh, well she wanted to go on an adventure, so I agreed to bring her with me.” He grinned sheepishly and squeezed the girl playfully.

“Does she know what kind of _adventure_ you’ll be going on? War is no place for a woman.”

Cato answered defensively. “Dravynea is a woman but I don’t see you refusing to take her along with you.”

“She can also cast spells. Can your Fastred boast similarly?” The girl stifled her impulse to defend herself, knowing her place.

“No, but I’m sure she could make herself useful some other way. Besides, I’d like some company whilst I’m risking my life.”

“We’ll be part of an army; you’ll not lack company.” Janus was becoming disgruntled by his brother’s flippancy. The girl looked barely old enough to marry, perhaps nineteen at the most, and he loathed the thought of her getting in the way or, worse, perishing in a raid.

Cato pulled the tone away from a serious discussion, which he knew he had no way of win against his brother. “I’m not Evander, I require a woman’s touch to be sufficiently comfortable.” He pinched Fastred’s bottom through the dress of her tunic, causing her to squeak and then slap her hands to her face in embarrassed laughter.

Janus sighed. “Fine. But you must promise to look after the poor girl. Her parents must be worried sick.”

“Great – good – yes, of course, I’ll take care of her.” Cato feigned being offended at the mere implication that he’d mistreat her. “And, either way, I doubt the war will last long. We’ve got the support of the people, after all.”

Janus cautioned him. “The support of the people means nothing without good generals. Elisif, if she can count on imperial support, will be fielding some of them. Ulfric, instead, must put his stock in men who are not tested and some who are, but have since grown old.”

At just around the time he was saying this, word of King Torygg’s death had just reached Markath and, thereby, the ears of the empire’s newest legate. Emlyn took the news gravely, though he masked his feelings with an expression of dull curiosity. He was sat around eating with his men when he heard the news so he avoided expressing an opinion, unsure of how they themselves, especially the Nords amongst them, were taking it. He waited for his lieutenant, Umberto, to arrive and they discussed it in whispers in between rounds of drink. “Do I face the prospect of deserters?”

“Amongst the Nords, almost certainly. I’d say the majority of them could desert, in fact. All of them pray to Talos, though some do it more openly than others.”  
“Is it simply their religion which would lead them astray? I find that hard to believe.”

“No, it is politics, also. Ulfric is regarded by them as a hero, whereas Elisif evokes their sympathy but not their confidence. He’s also known for being fair to the peasantry. Many of them possess a peasant background, and consider Torygg to have been too heavy-handed in his dealings with them.”

Emlyn gripped at his mouth in stressful contemplation. “Damn it!” His voice was loud enough for others to hear but they soon got back to their drunkenness and wench-chasing once he waved them on. “Join me in my quarters, we must discuss this further.” They went off to his quarters swiftly, as the legate marched with anguished purpose. Once Umberto had rolled the entrance flap down, Emlyn was able to let his feelings out: “Fuck. Fuck! _Fuck_! This is a disaster.” He tried some slow breathing to calm himself down. “You’re saying I’ll enter my first mission as a legate with mass desertion?”

“Yes, sir. It’s inevitable, unfortunately. However, you’ll not be the only one facing it. I expect it to play out over the coming weeks, mutiny and desertion across the legion, especially in Skyrim, but even amongst battalions abroad with a large Nord element. My advice to you would be to get ahead of it, tell your men that if they want to leave they can. It’s the best way to avoid bloodshed, which could whittle our numbers down even further than necessary.”

Emlyn chewed his bottom lip in deliberation. “Perhaps but – no, wait – there is another option, isn’t there?” He got a wild glimmer in his eye.

“I don’t think I quite follow you, sir.” Umberto was a fairly skinny man, with balding black hairy and swarthy skin. He was a competent officer but a sub-par fighter. He was intelligent enough to talk strategy with Emlyn, though he was often unable to fully appreciate his brilliance.

“Mutiny.”

“We let them mutiny?” Umberto considered it for a second, though his tone was incredulous, as he knew that the legate’s plans were sometimes deceptively simple. He, ultimately, rejected it, however. “No, no, it’s far too likely to produce casualties, even if we prepared ourselves well.”

“I’m not talking about ending a mutiny, but of starting one.” He smiled cunningly.

“Sir, you can’t be serious! Those are treasonous words.”

Emlyn decided to ignore that accusation. “Just, theoretically, help me picture it. Would I be facing the same kind of desertion numbers if I defected?”

“This is madness, sir.” Umberto had become flustered by this point. Still, his logical and officious mind took hold, as the legate knew it would. “Um, well, yes, or no – no, actually I suppose not. The men from Daggerfall would follow you to Oblivion and back. They are your kinsmen, and admire you greatly.” It pleased Emlyn to hear that. “Even amongst those from Cyrodiil, few would consider desertion. And even fewer would actually go through with it, facing the prospect of a perilous trek home or having to hide out in the wilderness for reinforcements that could take days to arrive.”

“Then it’s decided.” Emlyn spoke solemnly, but not without a hint of cockiness. “I shall keep my men, but lose my colours.” He held his secretary’s shoulder firmly, locking eyes with him to burn away any trace of trepidation. “We are Stormcloaks, from here on.”

His men took the news quite well in the morning, especially the Nords who began to toast their drinks to him, as the night before they had provocatively done to Ulfric Stormcloak himself. The only gloomy faces he noted were seven or so men from Cyrodiil, but he made sure to alleviate their fears. He offered, graciously, to let them leave, safe in the presumption that they wouldn’t take him up on it. Once enough of his troops had sobered up, in the afternoon, he began the long march east to meet up with the nearest semi-solid contingent of rebels.


	5. So It Was!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And what spark turned rebellion into revolution? What man died?

4E 201, 7th of First Seed

Cyrodiil was everything Evander had hoped it would be, or the Imperial City was at least – he’d only seen the countryside in passing. The streets were marvellous, neat and wide with well-made homes at every turn and luscious shops in between. He could swear that he’d even seen glass windows on a few of them. The only dampener on his wonder was his sudden insecurity from seeing so many finely dressed people; the toga was in fashion here for the more noble folk but even the hoi polloi all kept themselves well groomed. An officer of some kind walked past, with a long billowing red cape, which put him to shame. He looked over at his own; a much shorter green one stained with mud.

“That’s Marcus Constance, I know him, he’s a legate in the army. He may be heading up to Skyrim soon.” Evander’s guide was an older gentleman, with a bald head and coffee-coloured skin. “It’s awful business, I must say. I just can’t imagine how the rebels think they’ll win.”

“I doubt they care. They likely just want to do as much damage as they can; rapine and slaughter, you know, that kind of thing.” Evander was thinking of his brothers and the hate he felt in his heart for them, though he wasn’t entirely sure whether they were mixed up in the rebellion or not.

“Quite. Nords are something of a barbarian race.” The guide, Jove, was used to saying such off-hand things. “Oh, and I mean no offence by that. You’re an exception to that rule.”

“I take no offence. Indeed, I wish I had imperial blood to suit my name.”

Jove smiled at that. “Cyrodiil is the perfect home for men of your nature.” They regarded one another in suspicious silence before he politely clarified his statement. “We would never dream of turning a musician away.”

Relieved, the bard pushed the conversation forward. “The men I was travelling with told me there were games being held today, but I’ve not seen much evidence of that.” It was idle chat, and a half-truth as he had seen a few men he assumed to be athletes being followed through the streets by gaggles of fawning young noblewomen.

“Ah, yes, well the games being held today are not the ones we are most famous for. During Sun’s Height men come from all over the empire to compete. This month, however, features only Cyrodilic participants. They are exquisite specimens, mind you, so I don’t think it’s missing much.” He noticed that he had the young man’s attention now. “Would you like to accompany me to them? I have good seats.” The look he offered with his question suggested some devious form of payment would be required.

“I’d – yes, I would. The grandest competition I’ve ever attended was a jousting tourney.”

Jove laughed heartily in response. “A sorry sight, I do imagine.”

“Yes, it was short burst of violence punctuated by long obnoxious speeches and the kind of burnt meat and pungent wine that passes for fancy up north.”

“Shall we go, now, in fact? We might get to see some practice sessions up close.” Despite having known him for a matter of hours, Jove had already learnt how to play Evander like a fiddle.

“Yes, please.” He tried not to sound too excited, but failed.

The colosseum was not too far away and, before long, Evander was seated next to his guide low among the marble steps. The ground was filled with a thin layer of sand, and he could see one or two athletes stretching, chatting and getting ready in other ways. They were dangerously close, flexing and posing at times for the amusement of the groups of young women who’d already found their seats.

The guide looked down at his charge, with an upturned mouth and a knowing tone. “I told you they were exquisite, didn’t I?”

“And you weren’t wrong.” One, in particular, had caught Evander’s eye, smiling cockily and flaunting his marvellous body.

When the games began in earnest, he was most scandalised to discover that the athletes competed naked. When the man he’d been watching for almost an hour dropped his loincloth, Jove noticed that his guest’s jaw had done likewise. “Ah, yes, I forgot to mention that detail. I know you Nords need all the layers you can get.”

The day’s events passed all too quickly; time flew by as Evander became entranced by the wrestling contest most especially, the naked bodies of gorgeous men writhing together in a glorious struggle. He had to make excuses for sitting a while longer than most of the other audience members, in order to calm the swelling between his thighs.

“Would you like to meet some of the men?”

“We could do that?” Evander knew his guide was well-connected but had not truly appreciated what that meant in a place like Cyrodiil, where common blood rarely counted against a man.

“Of course, there’s always an exclusive party after these sorts of thing to which I am, naturally, invited.”

“I’d really like to go.” Evander was somewhat embarrassed by how childishly he came across in that moment. His embarrassment was only furthered, however, when he was taken down into the athletes’ quarters, and he began to realise just what the ‘after-party’ entailed. In a spottily lit room, a few of the day’s participants, some winners and some losers, were stood on a makeshift stage. They were posing, naked and, in some cases, oiled up. Groups of noblewomen, who were shamelessly caressing their bodies as if they were appraising, enthusiastically, some rare goods, surrounded each one. He noticed money pass hands, occasionally, between some of the women and a mean-looking man with swarthy skin and a barrel chest. This led, in turn, to a few of the men on display being taken away by the paying women.

One scandalous example saw a red-haired woman lead her man away by the cock, roughly and eagerly.

“What is this?” Evander’s tone was half outraged but half sinfully curious.

“It’s entertainment.” Jove’s tone was light-hearted and he spoke as he handed over a coin purse to the dark man before pointing to one of the athletes and whispering something or other into his ear. The man, a blonde-haired sex god whose appearance tortured the bard’s loins, seemed to nod in considered agreement.

“Come along now, Evander. I’ll show what I mean.” With both his guide and the, soon-to-be, man of his dreams beginning to wander off down a corridor, Evander was compelled to follow them. He was eventually taken to a cell, after passing a few others that filled the corridor with screams and moans of pleasure. It had a dual effect of confirming that he ought to be as ashamed as he was but, also, that he’d really like to find out just what Jove meant.

He didn’t have to wait long, as soon as they were in, the athlete pressed Evander up against the cell wall, forcefully and lustfully. The young man tried to protest but found his throat failed him. Instead, he produced a few quiet moans in response to the kisses on his neck and bucked his hips against hands that were fumbling to remove the belt of his tunic. Once his trousers were down he was flipped over and, without warning, penetrated mercilessly. It was initially painful but, once a rhythm had been established and he’d manoeuvred his hand into position around his member, he quickly grew to enjoy it. His face was shoved, uncomfortably, into the wall so he turned to face his guide, who was standing at the far end of the room. Jove offered him a pleasant smile that, being out of place, made him uneasy. Once he’d noticed that the bald man was pleasuring himself, he turned to face the other way in confused shame. The athlete came shortly afterwards and, then, left abruptly.  
That forced Evander to turn his head back around, to acknowledge the only other man in the room. At this point, they were both masturbating and staring awkwardly at one another. Jove, on the whole, seemed less awkward and offered up a few polite smiles but the other man was reduced to a miserable kind of shame. They had some time to talk afterwards, though Evander couldn’t shake the feeling that some previously unseen darkness pervaded Jove’s character and, thereby, his words.

“It must’ve been hard for a man like you, to live amongst Nords. They are such backwards people, and the love we share is so foreign to them.”

That was one way to put it. Evander found hollowness in his words, at once understated and overstated; it seemed wrong to speak of love after a night of pure lust, but it seemed far too generous to imply that Nords simply did not understand. His countrymen _understood_ , but they hated nonetheless. “I had assumed it was a crime, even in Cyrodiil.”

“Oh, well, of course it is.” His guide seemed taken aback by Evander’s naivety. “It must be kept underground, you see. We cannot become like the elven men, flaunting their love so shamelessly.”

Evander spat on the ground, astounded that the older man could speak so flippantly of _shame_. “So the Imperial City would convict that athlete if they knew? A man who brought them such glory?”

Jove chuckled. “No, no. He committed no crime. The law is more nuanced here, and more forgiving than in Skyrim. His act was a manly one. Yours was the only offence.”

“That’s good to know.” He scoffed.

“You’ll learn to appreciate it in time. When fruit is made forbidden, it is simply all the sweeter.” The bard realised, in that moment, that Jove had not once faltered in his confidence, nor in his patriotism. It was infuriating, but admirable all the same. “Even your father indulged, from time to time, during breaks from his mission to bed every tavern wench in the country.”

That struck Evander like lightning and his eyes grew wide to complement his furrowed brow. “What- what do you mean, I – I don’t understand?”

“Understand what? That your old man was an adulterer? Or, simply, that his partners occasionally included men?” Jove’s tone was inappropriately jocular. “Surely, you knew of his exploits?”

“He came to Cyrodiil to do business, and developed his philosophy from the time he spent here.” Evander didn’t fully believe his own words, which, in any case, were quoted verbatim from one of his brothers. Already, the gears were turning in his head and he was interrogating his childhood memories for clues to help him confirm or rebuke Jove’s story.

“Oh, my boy, what simplistic nonsense.” It was the first time his guide had called him ‘boy’ and may, in fact, have been the first time anyone from Cyrodiil had done so. Though he usually resented it, he felt he deserved it in this case. “He had most of his trade agreements drawn up in his first visit. And, as for his philosophy, he got most of it from a woman he met in a sex club. It’s fairly derivative, in case you hadn’t noticed, and based on Cyrodilic ideas developed centuries ago.”

Brynjar’s youngest son felt weak from the shock of it all. “But…” He could find the words he desperately needed to affirm the things he’d believed for as long as he could remember.

“He should’ve told you when you grew up.” Evander detected a slight hint of sympathy in Jove’s words.

“Well, he didn’t get much of a chance, did he?” The bard’s tone was distant, as he slumped down against the cell wall.

“Ah, yes, well, I told him it was a fool’s business trying to lead a peasants’ revolt. Peasants are the most dim-witted folks I’ve ever encountered, and that’s only speaking for Cyrodiil. I imagine those of Nord stock rank a few grades lower.”

Evander buried his face in his hands. He only spoke again after a moment of deep inner turmoil had passed. “I think I ought to know more about my father. How much can you tell me?”

### 

4E 201, 3rd of Mid Year

Andor counted himself lucky to see the Jarl, though none of his colleagues did. He was not the sort of man to hold a grudge, even against a man who’d caused his family so much hardship. That was partly because such hardship had never affected him personally and, as such, felt abstract. He could certainly see the misery of his wife’s face, put he could not say he truly understood how it got there. So, as it was, he relished the chance to meet a man of such high esteem, especially as his lord so rarely graced the peasantry with his presence. He was a tough looking man, at least when compared to his guards, who seemed quite portly and only kept the rabble in line through the unspoken threat of their swords.

“Gather round, my subjects!” Balgruuf’s projection was well practised and captured the attention of all the weary heads nearby and even brought a few crones and children from their homes. “These are trying times, but fear not. Your Jarl has not abandoned you. I will keep you safe from invasion, from wherever it may come.” Most of the peasants knew more of the rebellion than Andor, and he heard several of them mutter gravely, which he considered rude. “Though I am a busy man, I’ve come here today to recognise the invaluable service you perform.”

Andor clapped loudly, nodding his head and smiling widely. He even considered cheering but thought better off it when he realised that the Jarl’s words were not being met with such approval elsewhere amongst the crowd.

Balgruuf paused his speech and scanned the crowd with his eyes, seeming to look for someone, though really only making a show of it. “Who amongst you is called Andor Andersen?”

The large man immediately jumped in his skin in response, before rushing over to his lord. “I am, sire! I am!” This startled the guards, who drew their blades.

“Calm down, men. The man is simply excited to be named by his jarl.”

Andor raised his hands. “That’s right, sire. I didn’t mean to alarm you, good sirs.” He was proud of his manners.

Balgruuf chuckled warmly, as his guards lowered their weapons. “You are the man who saved our hold from a giant, then?” He spoke as though the event had taken place only yesterday.

“Indeed, I am, sire!” Andor was beaming. “Though I was only doing my duty.”

The jarl regarded him curiously, unsure of precisely how genuine the man’s deference was. “Nonetheless, you’re a hero of this land.” He saw the peasant’s eyes light up, even brighter than they already had been. “And, as such, you deserve a fitting title. From now on, you shall be known as a Hero of Whiterun!” The younger elements of the crowd roared at that proclamation. “Avenicci, pass me the sash.” The greasy steward produced a crumpled yellow cloth sash from his satchel and handed it to the jarl. “This item entitles you to freedom of our city and an hour off the fields, each day, for you to enjoy it.” Andor practically swooned as the tattered piece of fabric was placed over his head.

“I think I should like to enjoy it now, sire!” The jarl nodded his assent and they went off to the city together, in silence. Andor heard, as he left, murmurs of discontent and some elders scoffing at his newly found title. He shook their words out of his mind, however, refusing to let them get him down.

As he moved through the fields and towards the city, the familiar passed seamlessly into the unfamiliar. He had seen the fields all his life, and been to the landowner’s estate as and when he was summoned. Past there, he’d been to the shanty town as and when the caravans passed through, sometimes to trade but usually simply to gawp at the cat-men of Elsewhyr. He’d even seen the entrance towers and the draw-bridge once or twice, and the sound of hustle-and-bustle coming from within brought back the memories of such times. Once he’d entered, however, and the jarl had left him to it, he felt completely overwhelmed. City folk, some dressed in finery and others in rags, but all possessing outfits he’d never once seen before, brushed past him in innumerable directions. He could not hear himself think for all the shouting, some people were arguing, others were bartering with merchants, some were yelling at dogs or children.

He forced himself to look out, over the horde, lest he be driven mad. In doing so, he saw a striking contrast of grandeur and squalor. Apart from the higher levels, where buildings were large and sparser, there seemed to be hardly any separation between shops and taverns from houses and slums. At every turn, there seemed to a dingy crooked alley. The thing that struck him most of all, however, was that, no matter how often he cleared his throat or tried to draw attention to his sash, not a single person gave him so much as a second chance. He considered making a loud pronouncement that ‘the Hero of Whiterun’ had arrived in town, but thought it may have seemed arrogant.

The sullenness which replaced his previous sense of wonder was, apparently, just what was needed because, just as soon as his chin had fallen to his chest, a young woman came rushing up to him. She had short red hair and wore a tattered blue dress, with nothing on her feet. He thought she looked quite odd but spoke nothing of it.

“Are you the hero, I’ve heard so much about?” She spoke giddily, as though she were talking to a child.

“Why, yes, I am. I thought no one had noticed.”

“Oh, don’t mind them.” She gestured to the faceless masses, who were all still rushing around every which way. “Some city people can be quite ignorant.” She was smiley and demonstrative, making sure she had his attention by caressing his upper arms. “My, my, you are a big man, aren’t you?”

A man of greater intellect may have responded differently, but Andor simply smiled. “That I am.” He was even more chuffed with himself now.

“Come with me, hero.” She dragged him off towards one of those dingy alleys he’d been so appalled by, though he felt himself unable to resist.

“Oh, you can just call me Andor.” Truthfully, he very much enjoyed being called a hero, but he knew his manners.

The woman said nothing in response, merely smiling weakly and continuing to pull him away. The street was grimy and smelly, and Andor hated the squelching noise his shoes made as they ventured further down it. He remembered that the woman was barefoot and looked down towards her feet. He instantly thought less of city folk, after that.

“Where are we going?” He was becoming more than a little frustrated at having to march through the muck.

“We’re nearly there. We just need to get some privacy.” Her earlier giddiness had faded, replaced with bluntness.

“What for?”

“Your reward, of course. A hero deserves a reward, doesn’t he?”

Andor was disturbed by her reply but couldn’t disagree. “That he does.”

“Okay, here.” She stopped and motioned for Andor to step into a nook created by two wooden buildings. He did so, all the while looking flustered. She manoeuvred herself into the same narrow space and dropped to her knees. “Gods, girl! You’ll get your dress filthy.”

“Shut up.” Her nastiness caught him off-guard. “Do you want your reward or not?”

“Well, yes, but you haven’t even told me what it is yet.” He had half a mind to smack her around the head as he did to Britt whenever she spoke out of turn.

“Drop your trousers.”

“I’ll do no such thing! I’m a married man.” He was scandalised by her demand but, curiously, made no attempt to leave. Rather, he first wanted to hear her response, silently hoping she’d have a good reason for why he shouldn’t go.

“Doesn’t your wife know you’re a hero? What kind of spouse would deny her husband a well-earned reward?”

That was all he needed. “I suppose you’re right.” She helped him get his trousers down before taking him into her mouth. “Gods!” He’d never experienced anything like it, such was the frigidity of his wife. “Oh, gods!” He bellowed for all the city to hear, as she worked him well.

She could feel his hips begin to tense up and pulled her mouth away from him just in time for his climax. He spilled his seed into the squalor and sighed in exhausted satisfaction. “That was great!”

“I only hope you might do something for me in return.” She straightened up, a more natural tone returning to her voice, quietly devious. “There’s something I’d like you to take back with you.”

### 

Up in Riverwood, Elfa was having a very different sort of day. Far from having her routine interrupted, she had finally established one. She’d come back from a day of hunting with her game, which she left with Delphine’s husband before she retreated into her room. It was a more comfortable life than the one she’d had before, with solid walls and a softer bed, but it was, in many ways, just as lonely.

Delphine had decided on this day, however, to grace her room with her presence and talk to her, as she occasionally did. Elfa enjoyed the time they spent together and always made sure to sit up straight as she listened, no matter how tired she was. “Good job.” That was how their conversations always began, and the hunter responded with her usual sheepish grin. “I mean it; you’re a real asset to this village.”

“But one who goes unappreciated by most of its inhabitants.” There was no lament in Elfa’s voice. She was simply stating a matter of fact.

“Your loneliness is the cost of your freedom.” Delphine had not meant to be hurtful or harsh with her words but they inspired tears in the young woman’s eyes, nevertheless. “Oh, darling, I didn’t mean to upset you.” She pulled the blonde girl in close, like a child brought to weep in her mother’s bosom.

“No, you didn’t, it’s just that…”

“Go on.” Delphine smiled encouragingly, helping to wipe the tears from Efla’s cheeks.

“It’s just that it wasn’t _meant_ to be.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Someone else was meant to come with me. A friend, but she chickened out at the last minute.” The words were stirring up the painful memories of that dreadful night which she’d tried to keep buried. “I went on without her, but I shouldn’t have.” Now, _there_ was the lament.

The older woman brushed her hair gently, in pity. “What kind of friendship did you share with this girl?” She imagined she already knew the answer.

Elfa took a while to respond, looking deeply into Delphine’s eyes to help decide whether or not she fully trusted her. In the end, she determined that she had to trust _someone_ , and it might as well be her. “The kind we daren’t speak of.”

“I see.” The innkeeper’s eyes were filled with quiet judgement but her arms stayed open, maternal and caring. She left as soon as she heard Elfa’s sniffles begin to fade and the hunter spent the rest of the night alone, as usual. As her thoughts were of Britt, just before she fell asleep, so were Britt’s of her.

The beleaguered housewife had had to contend with a noisy baby and, then, an inexplicably emotional husband. Andor had showered her with praise upon his return from work and, at night, rather than hump her for a minute or two, he cooed over her, constantly rubbing her arms. The sloppy kisses he trailed down her back and around her neck were accompanied by tearful proclamations of love. Though it was odd behaviour, she chalked it up to drunkenness and, like most of her problems, she soldiered through it until he stopped. In many ways, it was worse than sex, and she had trouble getting to sleep. As her husband snored loudly, she stared intensely up at the corner of the room; she wondered where Elfa was, and if she were still alive.

It made her painfully upset to contemplate her old lover’s fate but she forced herself to continue. “Mara, please keep her safe, for me.” She prayed in choked whispers. “Forgive her sins, and honour her devotion.” Elfa truly _was_ devoted to love, if not to family. In Britt’s mind, however, she’d picked up the slack, in that regard.  
She stayed awake for almost an hour longer, waiting for answers to her prayers. None came.

### 

4E 201, 11th of Last Seed

“What’ve you been telling the peasants?!” Ulfric was possessed of a fury not matched since his killing of Toryyg. He spat his question out with an accusatory tone.

Janus was unfazed. “Only what they needed to hear! They wish to be free from tyranny!”

“No!” The jarl’s voice cracked through the forest that surrounded them. “They wish to worship Talos, that is all!”

“You are wrong.” Janus tried his best to calm things down. “They think well of Brynjar and wish to live according to his vision.”

“They don’t give a shit about his vision! They’ve not read his books. Most of them can barely read at all!”

“They do not need to read. They’ve heard the tales; they all know of the speeches he made to foment the revolt.”

Ulfric snarled and shot the man a deadly glare. “You and your brothers are far more trouble than you’re worth. I should’ve led this rebellion without you!”

Fastred squealed at that, hiding behind Cato to avoid being caught by Ulfric’s gaze. Janus noted, then, that neither of his brothers had spoken up. “Would Riften have rallied to support you, without us?”

Ulfric could not answer him, so his fuming became quieter and some soldier, or another, suggested that they leave the discussion for another day. The man was indulged and the camp retired for food.

They awoke the following morning to a hostile voice, projected well and full of strength, a Cyrodilic accent.

“Stormcloaks! You are under arrest! Do not attempt to resist! We have your camp surrounded!”

After that came hurried shouts from all over and, a few moments later, clashes of metal on metal and groans of mortal pain. Janus, as with most of the higher ranked soldiers, had no opportunity to join the fray; it had ended by the time he’d put on his armour.

Vulcan, however, had been one of the first to arise. It pained his younger siblings to see him knelt in submission with his sword in the hands of an imperial soldier.  
The man, who had earlier been nothing more than a voice, now stood in the centre of the camp. Most of the rebels were knelt in surrender, and of the few that weren’t, most were dead. “I am Marcus Constance, and you are my prisoners! This rebellion is over!”

Cato’s defiant response was echoed in the cheers of his troops. “This rebellion is just getting started!”

A blow to the head silenced him and, soon enough, the imprisoned soldiers were bound at the wrists and loaded onto wagons.

As fate would have it, Janus was loaded onto a wagon that already possessed one prisoner; apparently captured before the assault. “Evander!”

The young man was sullen and his throat was dry. “How are things, brother?” It was unlike him to be sarcastic, but he had no energy for sincerity.

### 

4E 201, 5th of Hearthfire

“I am not a villain!” Andor was close to sobbing.

“You are poison peddler! You are a fiend!” The jarl could not contain his disgust. “You’ve dulled the minds of so many of the peasants! You’ve jeopardised the wealth of my hold!”

“It was her, sire! She made do it!” He pointed at the redhead, helplessly. “I did not even know what skooma was before now!”

“How would I make you do anything, you great oaf?! I am woman!”

The jarl nodded and made his guards release her. “It’s a good question! And do you have an answer, peasant?”

“She abused my body! I am a simple man, sire, with simple taste.” The tears were falling, now, and even the girl who was the source of his torment could not meet his gaze.

The jarl was not so moved, however. “Are you admitting to another crime now, peasant? Adultery’s a hanging offence, you know?” He chuckled after that but the guard holding Andor spoke in his defence.

“No man’s been hanged for adultery in decades, sire.” His tone was incredulous.

“No city man, you mean? Peasants must be held to a higher standard, just as our women folk are! They are good stock, and cannot afford to be tainted.”

### 

A few hours later, before the anguished cries of a peasant crowd, Andor Andersen was hanged.


End file.
